


enemy of my enemy / a hundred eyes on you

by owleys



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Alternate Universe - Space, Multi, Post-Timeskip | War Phase (Fire Emblem: Three Houses), and came to live on the same spaceship, and grew to love each other like a family???, gays in space, lysithea linhardt hilda sibling energys, what if we were all running from our pasts
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-26
Updated: 2021-03-01
Packaged: 2021-03-18 14:01:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 20,976
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28993362
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/owleys/pseuds/owleys
Summary: After five years of relative peace, a number of events happen in rapid succession: the assassination of the Imperial Emperor; the failure of her chief Imperial spy; the extraplanetary escape of a songstress-slash-charlatan; and the assignment of a reluctant, but skilled assassin.The crew of theSeraphimare thrown together in a haphazard, maybe dangerous mix. Half of them would rather be anywhere else. The other half would die before leaving the safety of this haven they've made for themselves.Regardless of what they want, they all have a common enemy. And the enemy of my enemy is my friend. Allegedly.
Relationships: Dorothea Arnault/Petra Macneary, Hilda Valentine Goneril/Claude von Riegan
Comments: 28
Kudos: 18





	1. catalysts (or, the past crawls its way back)

**Author's Note:**

> I think we all have things we want so bad that we are forced to write them ourselves. For me, it was a longform space-opera-flavoured, post-timeskip Black Eagles/Golden Deer route fusion fic that finally gives me gay found family on a spaceship, and the Hilda & Linhardt supports that we never got. 
> 
> Anyways. Be gay, do crime!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lysithea and crew pick up a few strays, to the delight of everyone on board.

In the vast expanses of space—even in the fraction of it just between the stars—running seems easy. If only the simple act of putting space between her and the past is enough to free Lysithea.

Now that she has a small, purple-haired girl on her ship asking her, pretty please, for passage to Enbarr—well, Lysithea knows that her past has found her once again. Only five years later. It only took the Agarthans bashing up a satellite which was inhabited by a dissenter in their eyes, and the _Seraphim_ stumbling upon it. They have tentacles everywhere, it seemed.

Linhardt is eyeing Lysithea with concern. On her other side, Hilda has her hands on her hips, the familiar guardedness apparent in the slant of her eyebrows. Bernadetta, as she has introduced herself, is stuttering something out like she’s dying. “—just really, really important that I get this message to her. Please. It’s—it’s a matter of life or death, I swear.”

Lysithea exhales slowly through her nose. “And why should I care about what happens to the Emperor?”

Bernadetta’s puppyish eyes widen further, somehow. She’s staring at Lysithea as if the answer is blindingly obvious. “If those Agarthans seize the throne, you’re all done for. You’ll be sanctioned straight to hell.”

Lysithea sighs. Annoyingly, she has a point. The Agarthans would not look well upon medical supply runs to anyone, least of all their enemies with the Church. And there is no way that she would ever, ever let herself work for those bastards.

“Fine,” she snaps. Before the girl starts shouting for joy, or something equally as irritating, she adds, “You don’t happen to know anything that can make you useful on my ship, do you?”

“I guess? Just give me any odd job.”

Lysithea peers at her, wondering exactly what skill-set this girl had. You didn't just tell someone to give you any job. To be fair, they’d found her somehow still alive on a thoroughly destroyed broken satellite. The girl had put together a makeshift breathing system with the spare oxygen tanks. Clearly, she had some talent.

She directs her towards the heating unit down the hall.

She turns around to see Linhardt and Hilda staring at her. They both start talking, right over the top of one another. “Don’t you think this—” Hilda says, just as Linhardt is saying, “ … is a horrible idea.”

Lysithea just heads to the dashboard and reprograms their destination into the auto-pilot controls. The centre of the centre of the Adrestian Empire: the Capitol of Enbarr. Straight into one of the most heavily-secured, and spied upon, ports in the sector.

“We’re not even getting paid!” Hilda is exclaiming from behind her.

“Money doesn’t matter if we get imprisoned or killed,” Linhardt murmurs grimly.

“Oh, shush, the both of you,” Lysithea says sharply. “I couldn’t just say no. You all saw how we found her. And we’ll be fine, Ignatz did a great job modding her.” She doesn't need to add that there is some level of kinship that being wronged by the Agarthans gives Bernadetta; they all know well enough.

“She literally just told us that the Agarthans are planning an assassination on the Emperor!" Hilda retorts. "Which means that the place is going to be crawling with them—even more than usual! That is, the people who you had to escape from! This is an actual suicide mission, for both us and Bernadetta!”

“Also, I don’t think paint is going to stop the Agarthans recognising one of their own ships.” Linhardt shrugs as he adds, “But who am I, a lowly crest researcher, to question the will of our illustrious pilot-captain.”

Hilda snorts despite her frustration. “If you keep sucking up to her like this, she may have to elevate you to”—she gasps theatrically—“co-captain!”

Lysithea rolls her eyes, grinning despite their jabs. “Look, the Agarthans aren’t in power yet; they can’t amass that many people on Enbarr without someone noticing. We have time: just get in and out. Then we can drop her off at Garreg Mach and be on our way.” She can’t help adding, “Captain’s orders.”

Linhardt makes an undignified squawking noise before bursting into giggles. “Literally shut up,” Hilda wheezes, pink-varnished fingers pressed over her mouth. “Every time you say that I get the urge to roundhouse kick you in the mouth. Which wouldn’t be hard considering your height.”

Lysithea straightens the entire one-hundred and sixty centimetres of her height—a full six centimetres taller than Hilda—and stares her down. Point made, she turns away, shaking her head. “It seems no one is getting co-captain privileges today,” Lysithea tells them both with a long sigh.

They all erupt into further laughter.

*

Despite her earlier nonchalance about it all, Lysithea can't help pacing the cockpit as they draw closer and closer to the glittering glory of the Capitol of Enbarr. While the _Seraphim_ is a fine specimen of a ship, she doubts she could outrun newer Agarthan-made models.

There have been plenty of opportunities to upgrade over the past few years, but truth be told, Lysithea is too attached to the ship to give it more than a fresh coat of paint. Seeing this thing on the roof of the Agarthan compound had been the hope that spurred her on. This old girl has saved her in more ways than one, and Lysithea won’t do her a disservice by replacing her. 

Hilda raps on the wall as she enters, jarring Lysithea out of her thoughts. “How are we feeling?” she asks. At Lysithea's baleful look, she nods. “Okay, not good.” She looks like she's about to add something along the lines of, “Not that I didn't tell you so,” but chooses otherwise at the last second. 

Walking up to Lysithea and taking her by the shoulders, she wraps her into a bone-crushing hug. “It's okay. I'm here to beat up anyone that even so much as looks at you funny. I promise.”

Lysithea manages to smile. “Alright, thank you,” she says softly.

“Hello, huggers, we’re nearly there,” Linhardt announces as he joins them in the cockpit. “Also, Bernadetta fixed the heating. She fixed the entire temperature regulator, actually.”

Lysithea pulls away from Hilda to see Bernadetta wringing her hands, which are now stained with grease and oil. “It was nothing, I just couldn't bear to leave it so…janky.”

They dock at the Capitol port with no fuss. The Agarthans seem to have never reported the _Seraphim_ as stolen, oddly enough. Perhaps it is where it was stolen from that has dissuaded them from making it public knowledge.

Bernadetta slips out even before the ramp has clanked its way open completely, shouting a brief thanks over her shoulder before disappearing. Meanwhile, Lysithea stares at the temperature regulator panel, trying to work out exactly what about it had been ‘janky’. 

“I know your ego was bruised by the ‘janky’ comment, but I do think we need a proper mechanic on board. You know, in case we spontaneously combust due to your pilot-captain expertise,” Linhardt says from beside her. Instead of looking at the regulator, he’s smirking at Lysithea.

Lysithea, disgruntled, is forced to agree. That, however, meant that they would be waiting for Bernadetta to return instead of leaving as soon as they refuelled. “Sure. Fine. If she makes it back in one piece, we can recruit her.”

*

The next hour is spent staring out the portholes at passersby, trying to discern whether they’re Agarthans coming to take her back, or just normal people going about their days. Hilda and Linhardt have drawn straws for who would go buy fuel, and who would guard the door. Linhardt, to his utter dismay, had lost.

Lysithea frowns as the sound of Hilda’s voice filters down the hallway—guarding usually meant standing in the general vicinity of the place you were supposed to guard. “—I know! I get it, I do. No, this is not about you, for the last time! If you would just listen to me—” 

The tinny voice of either Holst Goneril or Claude von Riegan—she is guessing the brother, based on the fact that Hilda isn't red-faced as well as screaming—interrupts her mid-rant. Ironically.

With a growl of frustration, Hilda slams the device on the table. Lysithea winces, though from the sounds of it, it hasn’t cracked majorly. Hologrammers were not cheap, and at this rate, they would be buying a new one every week.

“Sorry you had to hear that, Lyssie,” Hilda calls. “I'll be, y’know.” Lysithea listens to her stomp back down the ramp, smiling faintly. One day she would get into a physical fight with her brother, and Lysithea would pay to see it.

Returning to the window, she notices a woman skulking among the ships. She has the hood of a long cloak pulled over her head, but the bright tattoos adorning her cheeks and hands give her away as Brigidine. She glances around furtively, until her eyes land on Lysithea’s. Eyes widening, she tugs the hood further over her face and hurries on.

Lysithea stares at her retreating back. A pair of Agarthan Mages in their plague-doctor masks round the corner, and Lysithea jumps away from the window, heart thudding in her throat. Creeping back, she peers over the edge to see the Brigidine woman now ambling her way towards the _Seraphim_.

“Hey, Lyssie….” Hilda calls softly.

Lysithea strides to where Hilda is standing, axe in hand. “Let her on,” she murmurs to Hilda.

She whirls, her face running through a number of expressions. “Eh? But—”

“She has an honest face. And she looks like she’s running from the Agarthans.”

Hilda continues to stare incredulously. “You and your people-reading,” she mutters, turning around as the woman arrives, hesitating at the bottom of the ramp.

“Hello,” she says quietly. “I am needing…passage.” She glances over her shoulder at the Agarthans. “Please.”

Hilda crosses her arms, but Lysithea offers her a smile. “I’m Lysithea. This is Hilda.”

“Petra. Petra Omalley.” She hurries up the ramp. “I can be paying,” she adds to Hilda. Even the mention of more income isn’t enough to make her lighten up.

Lysithea shoots her a look. Hilda knows why she’s helping these people. She pointedly ignores Lysithea. She sighs inwardly. She too, understands why Hilda doesn’t want to take on all these strangers.

They’re still standing there facing off when the sound of running footsteps prompts them to divert their attention. Bernadetta skids up to them, screaming to go. Slightly behind her is a panting Linhardt, hands conspicuously empty of fuel tanks.

They barge onto the ship. Lysithea is in the cockpit before she knows it, hands flying over the dash. It’s a familiar pattern, and it calms her somewhat. Flip that switch, press that button, grab the throttle. She throws a quick look over her shoulder, hoping the ramp was closed before they set off.

“Get Bernadetta in here right now!” Lysithea shouts without looking away from the controls. She staggers as the entire ship rockets upwards at a speed much faster than is probably legal. She swerves wildly around other ships in the airspace. The ocean is vast beneath them, the continent drawing further away below. She aims the nose of the ship upwards. The sky blurs past, bright blue one second and black the next. With a distant boom, they break through the atmosphere and tear away from the planet. Lysithea sags over the controls, setting their next destination.

Hilda appears, half-dragging a wheezing Bernadetta. At Lysithea’s fierce glare, she blanches. “I—Sorry,” she mutters, hanging her head. “I was too late anyway.” After trailing off, she just stands there, staring at the floor.

Abruptly, she starts crying. Huge, gulping sobs. Blubbering about kicking her off and impending doom and whatnot. 

Lysithea sighs, tells Hilda to guide her to one of the spare rooms. “Once she's done crying, tell her the radio needs to be finetuned. The one in the living area.” The pink-haired girl gives her a dirty look for giving her the baby-sitting job, but relents.

Out of the corner of her eye, she sees Linhardt pursing his lips to hide a smile. As soon as Hilda and Bernadetta leave, he laughs. “Try as you might to hide it, you are a massive sap,” he comments with a smug grin.

Lysithea snaps at him to shut up. Petra is still watching them, something like anguish smouldering in her gaze. “Well?” Lysithea says, turning to face her. “What's your story?”

She seems to come back to herself. “Those people were wanting to recruit me. When I was telling them I wouldn't join, they were very angry.” She looks as if she wants to add something else, but doesn’t.

Lysithea laughs darkly. “The Agarthans don't take kindly to not getting what they want.”

Petra nods slowly. Lysithea watches her lips flutter as she tries to say something. “I—May I be joining you? I am needing a place to be…staying low.”

She stands tall, proud despite the vulnerability of her request. Lysithea supposes that such spine might be useful to have around. And how does that saying go? If Petra hated the Agarthans as much as she seemed to, then it was a good idea to keep her around, for when Lysithea needed her aid.

“I'm assuming they attempted to recruit you because you can fight?”

She nods, a smile twisting her lips. “I am fighting very well.”

“You're on.”

Petra just nods again, a tight smile perched on her face. At Lysithea’s pointed cough, Linhardt jolts from whatever daydream he’s been engaged in and hurries out, beckoning for Petra to follow him.

Finally, some peace and quiet. Lysithea stares at the little hologram map of the Adrestia system that floats, flickering red, over the dash. The _Seraphim_ is a tiny dot heading rapidly away from Enbarr.

She sinks into her pilot’s chair. Her ship sings its creaking, raspy song. The stars twinkle, filling her vision with the infinitum of the universe—though now, it’s all so far away. Despite the space outside, with the nearest planets lightyears away, the world has never seemed smaller.


	2. rogue, rouge, and other acronyms

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dorothea makes her way off Enbarr, in a wholly legal manner. Why would you ever assume otherwise?

It isn't as if Dorothea had been trying to get caught. She isn‘t normally this sloppy with her cons. Though, she has to admit that this time she’d gotten too greedy. Fiddling with her hands, she hopes that the authorities haven’t found her backup accounts yet.

Seated beside the other criminals, wrists manacled in front of her, Dorothea supposes she has one Duke von Aegir to thank. After all, she thinks as the cuffs clatter to the grimy bottom of the truck, he is the reason she even has the means to get out of here. That, and also the fact that the immense amounts of money in his account are enough to keep her comfortable for decades.

The prisoners on either side look beseechingly to her. With a small sigh, Dorothea hands the girl beside her the lock picks. Her lucky lock picks. She won’t be needing them where she’s going anyway. “Good luck,” she whispers, winking. 

The guard driving the truck only has the time to yell before she’s kicked a reinforced-steel boot toe through the glass of the door, unlocked the thing with an almost casual slowness, and punched him hard enough to make him go lights out for a few minutes at least. From the outside, the truck swerves only for a moment before it is back on track, though the truly owl-eyed notice a body disappearing into the shrubbery along the side of the road.

There are cheers from the other prisoners. Dorothea throws them a grin through the rearview mirror. “You all are ready for a ride, yes?”

*

After ditching the truck and its newly liberated occupants—and her lucky lock picks, unfortunately—Dorothea strolls into the port of Enbarr, a brimmed hat pulled low over her head. Hair itches the back of her neck from when she’d cut it. Right hand shoved into her pocket and the other swinging casually, she makes her way towards the interplanetary terminal. 

She fiddles with the compartment door of her right palm in her pocket, running her nail along its almost imperceptible grooves. She can't feel any of it very well, but the vague sense of actually moving her fingers is there. 

Sometimes, when she’s in a particularly silly and romantic mood, she makes herself sad thinking about the fact that she can't ever feel the warmth of someone’s hand in hers. But of course, there are other parts of her body that can feel plenty, so she tries not to get too down about it.

Eyeing a trio of nearby Mages in their ridiculous plague-doctor masks, she approaches the entrance gates. They’re monsters of overlapping titanium and steel, designed expressly to keep people like her out. Of course, their manufacturers didn’t expect people like her to have metal hands implanted with chips. 

The scanner flickers for her attention. Despite having done this many times before, her chest still clenches. She waves a hand over the pulsing circle, heart beating horribly. The light remains stubbornly red. 

Just as she feels as if she may rupture, the gate swings open in a wave of moving metal as the light emits a happy chirrup. Dorothea lets her shoulders drop as she walks through.

She'd only taken a few steps into the terminal when there’s a shout behind her. Someone yells, “Hey, stop!” and she feels something latch onto the back of her coat.

She pulls herself out of the coat. Throws the hat on the ground behind her, already sprinting away. People only just manage to jump out of her way as she barrels past, one unlucky kid dropping a cookie that instantly got crushed under her heel. She skids on the damned thing for a moment before righting herself, shouting apologies over her shoulder. 

Dorothea’s breath comes hard and sharp as she runs, pulling down displays and throwing whatever she can get her hands. Sometimes, in moments like these, she wished she could bring herself to touch a gun properly. 

A snare whistles past her ear, exploding into a mess of silvery netting a few metres away. Cursing, Dorothea diverts her course.

She grabs at a railing and lets momentum carry her around the pole. Then she’s running back the way she’d come, ducking into a nearby string of stalls in the food court. Various smells assault her as she runs through kitchens, smoke and steam clouding her vision. A woman screams as Dorothea snatches a pot full of some sort of boiling liquid out of her hands.

Dorothea spins smoothly on her toes, steps behind a refrigerator, and dumps the entire thing on the closest Mage’s head as they run past. Whoever is inside the mask lets out a hoarse scream and falls, clawing at their now searing clothing. 

“Sorry!” she tells the terrified woman, before kicking the bench between them hard enough to send it directly into the path of the second Mage. This one falls into a heap on top of the other, sandwiching plastic shards, hot noodles, and soup between them. The Mage on the bottom can only grunt miserably. Dorothea drops the empty pot onto the pile. It hits them with a satisfying thud.

“And have a lovely day!” she adds with a smile, already running off.

She dives out of the front of the food stall, taking the impact in a roll. She seizes a nearby bottle of mystery sauce and rips its lid off, emptying the oily red contents on the floor where she'd just been standing. 

Dorothea watches the final Mage follow her trajectory out the stall before they realise what she’s done. They try to skid to a stop, only seeming to make matters worse. They slide onto their ass, slipping uncontrollably. She steps aside with a grin and a salute as they then slide the final few metres to crumple into a heap against the wall.

Dorothea dusts her hands, waving at the crowd of onlookers recording the proceedings on their various devices. She beams, then turns on her heel and waltzes off. She has a ride to catch, no time to dawdle and gloat. Not too much, anyway.

She isn't sure what makes her pick this ship in particular. Maybe it’s because she’s in a rush. Maybe there is something alluring about those hundreds of eyes painted all over its lavender body. But Dorothea knows that it is just dumb luck in the end. As everything is.

Weaving among the landing gear of the various docked ships, she sees that this one has its doors open and its ramp down. It isn't a big ship by any means, but it looks sturdy. Sturdy enough to take her at least to the next system, if not out of the sector entirely.

Dorothea slows, crouching directly underneath the ramp. Someone above her is clomping around, and soon the woman’s voice goes shrill as she begins yelling. Dorothea winces in sympathy for the receiver. As she listens, the voice retreats as footsteps head up the ramp.

Peering cautiously over the side of the ramp, Dorothea sees no one. Before whoever had been standing guard could come back, she’s already vaulting over the edge and scurrying on board.

The room inside is oddly decorated: a few ancient armchairs, a three-legged stool, and a long couch surround a large wooden table. A cheery vase of flowers brighten the room from the centre of the table. An old music player sits on a shelf pushed against the far wall, along with a number of books. On the other side of the wall is a small kitchenette, tiled a cheery purple. Dorothea stares, filled with a hollow, jealous yearning for the homeliness of it all.

The moment can't last, however. She hears the call end with something slamming onto the table, glimpses a pink-haired head turn towards her, and dives behind the couch. The frayed rug stings her hands and knees. “Sorry you had to hear that, Lyssie,” the woman calls down the hallway, before stomping back to the ramp and seating herself at the top of it.

She’s wearing a dress, strangely enough. And a short one at that. Her bright hair is tied into a ponytail and she is wearing a lot of jewellery. There is also, contrastingly, a massive, glowing axe lying beside her. That axe must be at least half of her height. 

Counting to thirty to see if she moves—she does not—Dorothea begins making her way to the port hallway, creeping into the room at the end of the narrow hall. The engine room greets her with a wall of heat and sound. She makes a face, but still settles down in the corner for a long wait. As Manuela would have said, sometimes that’s just how it is.

She would be able to hear her really say it soon enough. That’s what she’s hoping, anyway.

*

When Dorothea wakes up from her unwelcome nap, it’s to a striking woman looming over her. “Oh.” She sits up, fluffs her hair. “Hello.”

She looks at her with dark, curious eyes, and says nothing. “You seem…interesting.” That is an understatement to say the least. Her cheeks are adorned each with a soft diamond-shaped tattoo, in the same nebulous purple as her eyes. A real-life sword is sheathed at her waist. That antique would sell for thousands of credits if Dorothea could get her hands on it.

“Who are you?” she says finally, drawing Dorothea away from thoughts of theft. Her voice is soft around the edges, accented in a cute sort of way. 

“Dorothea Arnault. Nice to meet you.” She shoots her a disarming smile—her best. 

She blinks unaffectedly, like a cat. “I am Petra.”

Dorothea rises to her feet, dusting nonexistent stuff off her trousers. She starts to say something to Petra and stops. There really are more pressing matters than romance, especially romance with jewel-tone eyes and facial tattoos.

So instead, she offers Petra a hand to shake. With the other hand behind her back, she picks open her hand and has a tiny shard of a dagger in her fist. It never hurts to be safe.

Petra takes her hand reluctantly, grip surprisingly strong. They shake, Dorothea still skirting her eyes over the other woman. A knife is sheathed along her forearm as well. How many weapons could one person have? And not a single gun either. It’s not looking good for her escape.

Dorothea grins, steps towards the door. Petra follows, and follows again when Dorothea steps the other way. She’s nowhere near as tall as Dorothea, but she moves with the steely grace of a predator. Dorothea watches the muscles in her bicep flex as she draws a curved dagger. She wonders, briefly, exactly how strong Petra really is. What she could do with arms like those. Then the silly thought is swept up by adrenaline.

“Hey, alright, I was just…” Before she can finish what she was saying, Dorothea ducks under Petra’s arm and sprints for the door, the metal grating shuddering beneath her. 

She doesn't make it far. 

Petra sends her sprawling with a well-placed boot. Her little knife spins away. Scrambling further back into the engine room, Dorothea searches frantically for a place to hide. Chest tight and breathing heavily, she knows she will be very angry with herself later about getting distracted. Not that she'd be alive to be angry at this rate.

A searing pipe brushes her arm, and she yelps, jumping away from the walls. The machinery in here whines with a life of its own, shifting and groaning like an old woman. Clouds of steam erupt from a nearby pipe, to be quickly sucked up by another with a whoosh. As it clears, Dorothea peers desperately towards the door. Sees Petra standing there watching her. Even from this far away, her eyes shine, reflecting the dim red lights of the engine room. 

She makes no move to come closer. She probably knows as well as Dorothea that there is no other way out. 

“Okay, look,” Dorothea calls softly. “I don't know why you're trying to kill me—”

“I am not trying to kill you,” Petra interrupts, a furrow forming between her eyebrows. “I am…watching, while someone is coming.”

Dorothea swears under her breath. She is absolutely screwed, monumentally fucked, about a billion other variations of that phrase. Only one thing left to do.

“Petra.” She fixes her with a wide smile. “What is it you want? I have a lot on offer.”

She doesn’t seem to budge, though Dorothea hopes it’s the shadows and the distance that are tricking her. “Is it money? Connections? Love?” At the last one, Petra shifts a slight step back. “I can give it all to you; just don’t turn me in.”

They stare at each other. Dorothea, smiling. Petra, stony-faced. Finally, Petra turns smoothly to call out the door. “Hilda!”

At the same time, Dorothea hurdles a bundle of pipes and tackles Petra. They land in a spitting, scratching pile. Petra is clean, and fast, landing punch after punch. Rolling over, Dorothea grabs her by the waist and slams her into the metal floor. “I don’t want to fight!” she yells. Her nose is bleeding. She can feel it leaking into her hair. Goddess, not the hair.

Dorothea swings her legs over Petra’s, shoving off the ground to straddle her. She’s silent where they’re usually screaming themselves hoarse, eyes narrowed rather than wide with panic. Before she can blink, Petra clocks her by the jaw, prompting a groan. Recovering quickly, she narrows her eyes at Petra’s hands. 

As Dorothea goes to neutralise her darting fists, Petra sharply twists her right wrist. She yelps, fire searing up her arm, giving the other woman enough time to grab her by the shoulders and flip them.

Now lying beneath Petra, Dorothea grins. The gesture makes fresh blood spurt from her nose. Her right wrist is still stinging, fingers twitching uncontrollably—she has definitely broken some wires. This isn’t her best, but she can work with it. 

“You know, if you’d wanted to do this we could have arranged it without all the blood.” Her smile turns into a smirk as she adds, “Unless you’re into this kind of thing, of course.”

Petra laughs, the sound clear and sudden. It’s surprising, and Dorothea is caught off guard. Then her face settles back into its previous seriousness and she grips Dorothea by the wrists, pinning her in place. “You will not be talking anymore, please.”

“What are you going to do, gag me?” Dorothea simpers at her from beneath her eyelashes. Petra looks absolutely affronted by that statement, so Dorothea stretches up and presses her lips onto hers. 

Petra produces a surprised grunting kind of noise and loosens her grip on Dorothea’s arms. Dorothea pushes herself off the ground, but instead of shoving her off and running, she just leans further into the kiss. Something within her tightens as Petra begins to return the kiss. Her lips are soft, body warm as she shifts against her, pressing a hand into Dorothea’s back, forcing them closer together.

She’s still lost in the haze of their contact when she feels the cool edge of a knife on her throat. Dorothea’s eyes fly open.

Petra is smirking down at her, a new knife in her hand. A new knife that is now resting against one of Dorothea’s major arteries. She curses herself, skin too hot and a muted panic coursing through her. A part of her is still reliving that kiss, feeling its electricity on her lips. Still, she beams up at Petra, careful not to move too much. “What, you got stage fright?”

Another laugh. She may have to start tallying these wins. “You are the most ridiculous person I have ever been meeting.” Dorothea is pleased to see her cheeks are flushed a nice red. Ridiculous or not, she had kissed her back. Even if it was just a trick.

“Oh, Petra, you don’t have to pretend with me. I know you enjoyed every second of it.” She winks, tongue darting out to wet her lips. “We can do it again, you know. Just put the knife away.”

Petra raises an eyebrow, but Dorothea doesn’t miss how her eyes flicked lower to her lips and then up again. It always works, Dorothea swears by it. “I won’t be falling for those tricks again.” She keeps her eyes on Dorothea’s, her free hand going to a sheathe in her boot. Dorothea doesn’t even have a chance to do anything as Petra moves off her, then quickly points the tip of yet another knife at a spot between Dorothea’s ribs. So what, she’s ambidextrous? Probably very skilled with those long fingers.

Dorothea pouts. “You’re no fun.”

Petra just says, “Go,” and prods her towards the door. “If you are doing anything strange, I will not be hesitating to put this knife in you.”

“What counts as strange? There are a lot of things I could do right now.”

She doesn't even deign to give her a response, disappointingly. Though when Dorothea peeks over her shoulder, she sees the faint outline of a smile on Petra’s lips.

And that is how Dorothea finds herself standing in the cockpit, surrounded by a group of people who'd tailed her and Petra all the way here. 

While only one of them is openly glaring at her, the others don't look particularly happy to see her either. Dorothea sends them all a bright grin. “Lovely to meet all of you.”

The pink one from earlier steps forward, getting up in Dorothea’s face—which takes considerable effort, seeing how short she is. “How'd you get in?” she asks brusquely.

She shrugs. “Try not to yell so loud and next time, you might hear the person sneaking onto your ship.”

She looks about ready to cut Dorothea’s head off with that wicked axe, but one of the others cuts in. “Hilda.”

Her eyes are a luminous pink, and when she fixes them on Dorothea, she feels like she is being evaluated. It's the stare of a cold cynic. Her smile wobbles a bit as the woman gently pushes Hilda out of the way to approach her.

“Your name and why you're here.”

“She always appreciates honesty,” the only man drawls from his spot lounging against the wall.

“Touché.” Dorothea winks at him. He doesn't even react, just blinks slowly and yawns. “I'm Dorothea Arnault. Your ship was just the most enticing-looking ride. For multiple reasons.” She blows Petra a kiss.

Hilda scoffs, looking between the two of them. “I don't believe you.” Dorothea placed a hand over her heart in exaggerated hurt. She has very good reasons not to, but what a blow it is.

The scary one is still studying Dorothea. “Why did you want to leave Enbarr?” she asked. 

Dorothea’s smile faltered for a second before she plastered it back on. She was expecting, “You’d better pay,” or, “Get off our ship.” Not an innocent little question, one that burrowed into the very centre of her. She stared at her, unable to find the words to lie with. What else would she be here for?

“I'm looking for someone.” The truth blurted from her before she could force the words back down her throat, back into her heart. It hurts a little, to say it out loud. To know that every person in this room is seeing something real about her. It makes her feel entirely too vulnerable for comfort. 

She straightens, fixes the mask. With a grin, she adds, “Maybe yesterday those words would have been revenge, but things change.”

She stares at Dorothea with an impressive poker-face, seemingly ignoring the second thing she’d said. Dorothea holds her breath, her shoulders much too tense for a casual conversation. She’s handled worse than this. She’s handled much worse than this.

Finally, she says, “Any idea where to find this person?”

Dorothea releases her lungs from the top of her chest, breathing once more. “I think she's in one of the other systems by now. I'd have to just ask around.” She doesn't even know her name, and she's telling her about Manuela while the other four are listening in. She makes herself shrug casually. “But I'd have to stay with you all, fortunately for you.” 

“Well, Dorothea,” Hilda says her name like she's trying to curse her, “we’re out of rooms.”

“She can share with someone,” Poker-Face interjects.

The purple one that hasn't said a thing squeaks suddenly, shaking her head vigorously. “Not me!” she announces, before almost running out the door. They all listen to the echo of her footsteps. The man snorts quietly.

Hilda shoots a sarcastic smile at Poker-Face. “Or she can, y’know, not,” she says, teeth gritted.

“Since you and Petra have already been acquainted, you can share a room.” The smile Poker-Face gives her doesn't reach her eyes. “If you do anything, I’m loading you into the pod and shooting you into the cold abyss of space.”

Somehow, Dorothea gets the sense that she might not be kidding.

“I'm Lysithea,” she adds. Ah, the Lyssie from before. The nickname doesn't seem to line up with the person in front of her. “Bernadetta just left.”

“Linhardt. Goodbye.” He peels himself from the wall and ambles off, rubbing his eyes.

“And you're Hilda!” Dorothea says cheerfully. Hilda gives her the same sarcastic smile, mutters, “Wonderful to meet you.” She hefts her axe over her shoulders and stalks off.

Lysithea shoos them out the door. She's bent over the controls, pressing some buttons or something. Dorothea doesn't know the first thing about ships, and also doesn’t feel like sticking around Lysithea, so she turns to Petra. “Well? Lead the way.”

She blinks at her before turning, walking too quickly for someone who was supposed to be leading her to her room. When Petra's back is turned, she allows herself a small frown. This had not at all gone the way she had expected; five people now knew too much about her. Dorothea glances out a porthole at the black outside. Manuela, she thinks, please let me find you. Sooner rather than later.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i really said homoerotic knife fight rights <33


	3. the problem of nostalgia and its unattainable remedy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Petra gets to know the crew, while trying her hardest not to think about everything.

Petra has always been a light sleeper, and sleeping in the top-bunk of this cold spaceship only makes her more restless. More nostalgic for those afternoons spent dozing in the treetops back on Brigid. She is the most homesick she has ever been. So much so that it feels like something tangible, lodged in a crack in her heart, making her ache at inopportune times.

When Dorothea shuffles out of the bunk below her and creeps out the door, Petra notices immediately. Slipping from the grey haze of sleep, she leaps off the bed, landing lightly on the balls of her feet. Her father had always said that she had the gift of the Shadow Spirit, able to just materialise beside him as if she had stepped from the shadows.

She shudders when her mind conjures the idea that it had all amounted to practice.

The hall outside is cold, the wall even colder as she skirts along it. Petra shivers, but makes not a sound as she tails Dorothea. She seems well-accustomed to sneaking around as well, judging from how quietly she walks. If Petra wasn’t as skilled as she is, she probably would not have noticed Dorothea.

If only she wasn’t as skilled as she is—she would be back home. She can’t consider it now. What’s done is done. This is another opportunity to learn the layout of the ship, so she can’t let her mind wander too far into the past.

As she nears the end of the hallway, the distant crackle of the radio reaches her ears. Peering around the corner, she sees Dorothea lying sprawled on one of the couches. She has an arm pointed straight up at the ceiling, for some reason.

The radio announcer is reporting news. “At the Capitol Interplanetary Terminal today, witnesses report a woman with short, brown hair and green eyes giving Mages a chase through the terminal, before escaping unseen. A warrant is out for her arrest. Check back for further updates, this is Enbarr Eagle Ninety-Nine.”

Petra’s eyes slide to Dorothea again, ticking off the matching features. So there was more to her story. She couldn’t say she was surprised; Dorothea had the look of a liar to her. ‘It’s in the eyes,’ her grandfather would have said. ‘They’re too large. Very inauspicious.’

Her inauspicious eyes are scrunched shut. She doesn’t seem to be moving. Petra steps out into the light, slightly. It was a test, she told herself. A test of how observant Dorothea really is.

She counts to three before Dorothea opens one eye and says, “I can see you, you know.”

Petra startles, but doesn’t move. That was fast.

“Oh, come now, Petra. You’re not fooling me with that.” She’s craning her neck, arm still thrown into the air above her. It’s strange; the people of Fódlan are strange.

She clears her throat and picks her way around the chairs towards Dorothea. “Why did those Mages give you a chasing?”

Dorothea laughs. “What? Looking to turn me in for the reward?”

“No.” Petra perches on the arm of a chair on the opposite side of the circle from Dorothea. “I am just being curious.” She tries very hard not to stare at Dorothea’s bare legs, but it’s rather hard considering she is only clad in an oversized red shirt.

“Okay, fine. Let’s get to know each other.” She sits up, leaning forward onto her knees to fix those luminous green eyes on Petra, whose own gaze darts guiltily back up to hers. “I have to answer this truthfully, and then you have to answer a question of mine truthfully. Agreed?”

Petra nods, albeit a bit reluctantly.

Dorothea grins, clapping her hands together. “Perfect!” Her smile turns conspiratorial. “I snuck through the entry gate. Walked right in, past the ticket booths and all the Mages.” Somehow, Petra doubts that’s the whole truth. She doesn’t press her, though. This is already veering too close to her accidentally revealing something she shouldn’t.

Dorothea continues on briskly. “But that’s in the past now. It’s my turn.” She thinks for a moment. Then, she asks, “What’s your favourite dish?”

Petra is taken aback by the casualness of the question. “Begging your pardon?”

“Your favourite dish,” Dorothea repeats, smiling softly, eyes crinkled. It’s the truest expression that Petra has seen her make, all of the usual flirtatious bravado stripped clean.

Petra realises she’s staring, and hurries on. “It’s a…they aren’t really having it here in the Fódlan sector, but it is a fish and turnip stew. Oh, and it’s very spicy.”

She watches Dorothea wrinkle her nose. “I don’t do well with spice at all. But if you like it, then I’m willing to give it a go.”

Petra snorts, brushing past her flirting. “All you people of Fódlan are the same. You cannot be enjoying spices at all.”

“Oh, don’t be so sure of that. You might change my mind,” Dorothea murmurs, throwing Petra a wink. When there is no reaction, she seems to change tact, adding, “What’s it like being so far from home?”

Petra leaps from the arm of the chair, unsheathing a knife to flip it as she paces. She doesn’t miss the way Dorothea flinches. “I am not wishing to speak about it,” Petra says finally, putting the knife away again. She can feel Dorothea’s eyes following her. When Petra looks towards her, she flicks her gaze away.

There’s something happening here. She isn’t sure whether she likes it.

Petra fiddles with her bracelets, counting their beads with her fingers. Not even pacing can calm her today. She inhales deeply before asking, “Were you meaning anything with that kiss?”

Above them, the little stars painted on the ceiling shimmer. Someone must have used glow-in-the-dark paint. Petra traces constellations with her eyes, not daring to look at the woman sitting nearby.

Dorothea’s head jerks towards her, a grin growing on her face. “On your mind, am I?”

Petra stops to stare at her. These people speak in riddles. “How are you on my head?”

Her laugh is loud, but Petra can tell she doesn’t mean anything malicious by it. “No, it’s an—it doesn’t matter. I meant to ask whether you were thinking of me.”

Now Petra has to furrow her eyebrows. “Of course I am. Why would I have been asking you otherwise?” Dorothea just gapes at her. Petra smirks, lowering herself into a chair opposite Dorothea. “What? Is the truth being too much to handle?”

She watches as Dorothea rises to her feet, long limbs shining under the faint emergency lights. When she sinks into the chair beside Petra, she freezes. Her overwhelming urge to flee fights the hunger for the warmth that Dorothea would provide. Cheeks aflame, Petra settles for leaning further away.

“What are you looking for?” she asks abruptly. The stare she has affixed on Petra is solemn, though she smiles in a way that doesn’t reach her eyes.

What she wants to say is that she's looking for her grandfather. Because at least then, she isn't fully lying. Instead, what she says is, “Myself.” She finds she isn't lying at all when she says it.

Dorothea just smiles distantly. “I would call bullshit, but…aren't we all,” she murmurs. She looks miles removed from the woman Petra had fought earlier today. The woman Petra had kissed earlier today. It’s strange to admit it, but she looks… vulnerable. Green eyes shadowed, lips set into a tight frown, swathes of bare skin shining.

Petra shifts her balance to lean further away from Dorothea. She doesn’t have time for distractions, not with all of what is at stake.

So when Dorothea stands up and mutters that she’s going back to sleep, Petra doesn’t say anything. She nods. Dorothea smiles. Petra tries not to reach out for her. Tries not to tell her to wait.

Then she remembers that they’re bunked in the same room anyway. As Petra catches up to Dorothea, she hears her laugh. She throws her a smile over her shoulder, and steps out of her way to hold the sliding door open. “Milady.”

Petra beams, sketching a bow. “Goodnight.”

“I’m always here if you need me. For anything.” She sends her a slow wink, lips generously curved. Petra tries not to think of other curves as she practically throws herself into bed, a flustered smile plastered to her face. She listens to Dorothea’s breathing slow, mind unable to stop racing.

Everyone on this ship is going to die sooner or later, she told herself. It’s just the way of things. The order of the world.

None of that makes her feel better about what she has to do.

*

Lysithea is already awake when Petra creeps into the living room. She’s perched on her little trundle bed in the corner, staring out of one of the windows. The glass stretches the length of the room, but is only about a handslength tall. Petra supposes that it has something to do with physics, but she’s never had the head for maths.

The distant glow of Leicester washes them in gold. Lysithea throws a long shadow, her hair shimmering in the light. She looks the picture of serenity.

As soon as Petra clears her throat, that image is shattered. Lysithea moves fast. She’s staring down a barrel rifle before she knows it. Lysithea’s eyes are clouded until she realises it’s just her. Lowering the gun, she clicks on its safety and leans on it. “Don’t sneak up on me again.” There is no apology in that tone.

“Of course. I will not be doing it again.” Petra gives her a quick bow, then crosses the room to stand at the window.

She hears Lysithea walking towards her, listening to the rasp of her slippers. She slides into Petra’s peripheral vision, a pale shape just out of view. She could’ve been a spirit. “You didn’t apologise.”

Petra throws her a glance. “Neither did you.”

Lysithea doesn’t meet her gaze as she smiles wanly. “That’s because I didn’t owe you one.”

Petra decides not to mention that she had just had a gun in her face, instead saying, “In Brigid, we are not apologising. We are only promising to do better next time.” At this, Lysithea does turn to look at her, face impassive. She continues, “Apologies are for the benefit of the apologiser. Doing better is for the benefit of the person being apologised to.”

She knows that isn’t the best way she could’ve explained it, but Lysithea seems to understand her. “Saying sorry doesn’t change things.” It seemed to Petra that she was in agreeance.

The next person up was Hilda. Though, with how well-dressed she appeared as she sauntered from her room, Petra could have guessed that she’d been awake for much longer.

“Good morning,” she calls as she strolls into the room. It seemed to be a way to alert Lysithea as to who was approaching. Petra shoots the young woman another look. What exactly had she been through? She’s busy running through the possibilities, fingers drumming out a pattern on her leg, when she’s interrupted by Hilda.

“Lyssie, I can’t cook for shit. You can’t cook for shit.” Hilda turns to Petra, a hopeful expression lighting up her eyes. “Surely you can cook for shit?”

Petra grins. “I can definitely be cooking. With the right ingredients.”

So that is how Petra finds herself frying up some slightly saggy mushrooms, recently-defrosted bacon strips, and the last half dozen eggs.

Hilda is making herself useful by toasting the bread—which involves standing at the counter, taking toast out, putting bread in, and pushing down the lever. All in all, a very heavyweight job.

Lysithea brews tea. Petra can hear what she’s assuming is a large volume of sugar being emptied into the pot. As she catches a whiff of its sharp scent, Petra whips around. “Where were you getting that tea?”

She puts down the teapot and picks up the discarded packaging. “It’s ginger tea.” With a snort, she says, “I picked it at random.”

Petra breathes deeply through her nose, imagining the ginger filling her lungs. This had been her mother’s favourite. Its smell brought back memories of twilights spent in gardens, frangipani on the wind. Being gently roused at dawn by a warm cup, steaming soft in the dawn. Cold nights huddled around campfires, discussing the day’s hunt.

It hurts too much all of a sudden. She realises her hand is white-knuckled around the spatula. Lysithea is watching her coolly. Petra turns back to the stove; the bacon is a bit charred. When Hilda looks over, it’s with a grin. “Well, you’re officially a liar.”

Petra smiles. “I was saying that I can cook. Not that I can be cooking well.”

Hilda snorts, though with a smile. She seems to have warmed up to her a little. As if she plucked the thought from her mind, Hilda says, “The only catch is no questions, okay?”

She’s still smiling, but the mirth has leaked away from her eyes. They’re serious, guarded, and maybe even scared. She looks to Petra like prey that hasn’t yet placed a new smell coming from upwind.

Petra just nods. They can have their secrets, as she could have hers.

Bernadetta never shows for breakfast. Dorothea and Linhardt do, however, seem to be competing for most sluggish morning person.

Dorothea staggers into the closest chair, striking even with messy hair and the faint trail of dried drool tracking from the corner of her lips. “Breakfast?” she grunts.

Petra laughs. “Only if you are saying please.”

Dorothea opens one eye, focuses on Petra, and then opens the other. Laying a lazy hand on her chest, she puckers her lips and says, “Oh, most beautiful woman I have ever lain thine eyes upon, my dearest heart, please bless me with your breakfast.”

She squawks as Hilda lands a well-aimed piece of toast at her face. “There’s your breakfast,” she says with a savage grin. Then she flips her hair and adds, “Thanks for the compliments.”

The toast crunches loudly as Dorothea takes a bite out of it. “Perfectly toasted. Thank you, treasure of my soul.”

This time she manages to dodge the next piece.

Linhardt, however, is not so lucky. Caught mid-yawn, he grunts, still blinking. Petra is impressed to see that he doesn’t even stagger. With breadcrumbs in his hair, Linhardt bends down and retrieves the toast that had just hit him in the face. “Delivery service?” he asks, yawning again.

That prompts a dry laugh from Lysithea, who has just finished painstakingly carrying the teapot over to the table. “Okay, enough. Crew meeting, everyone.” It sounds quite serious when she says it.

It turns out that it sounded a lot more serious than it looks, what with the many sleepy faces and full mouths sitting around the table.

Lysithea carefully looks between everyone, standing while the rest sit. It doesn't make her seem any taller, really, but she's intimidating nonetheless. “I was thinking,” she says slowly, “that we should assist in the war effort.”

The immediate reaction is one of shock, and then of visceral abhorrence. Hilda throws her hands up in the air. “Oh, so risking our necks for these medical drops isn't enough?”

Linhardt sits up straighter, oddly alert. “I would prefer that we…didn't,” he drawls. “There are some that are born fighters and some that are not. I am the latter.”

Lysithea pivots between the two of them, snapping, “Both of you are just fucking cowards.”

Dorothea and Petra exchange looks. It feels as if they’re intruding. It also seems as if it isn’t the first time the three have had an argument in a similar vein. “Your entire thing is running away from those bastards,” Hilda snarls.

Lysithea actually flinches.

Petra sits back, picking at the food slowly going cold on her plate. While unexpected, this isn’t exactly unwelcome. Maybe if Lysithea just went to the Agarthans of her own accord, she didn’t have to do anything.

It’s a selfish thought, she knows. But what’s she doing here except being selfish? Petra stares around at the others sitting at the table. A tentative thread keeps them all together, and she would be the one to cut it. She would be the one sending them spiraling off into the dark by themselves.

She sips her tea, the tea that smells and tastes of home. Tries to think about her family instead. Cian’s smile shining with all the sunlight of the world, his little hands wrapped around one of her fingers. Her mother laughing at a joke with her entire body as her father smiled faintly. Her grandfather, hiding candies in his hands and up his sleeves, palming them off to her with a wink. Days spent laughing and touching and being in the same spaces.

The tea leaves a bitter aftertaste at the back of Petra’s throat. Half of them are dead now. Gone forever. She doesn’t want to think about it any longer, so she tunes back into the argument raging around her.

“Just stop, okay?” Hilda is saying. “We’re already going to—there. That’s bad enough. I don’t want to hear about this war again.”

“You’re going to have to face them one day,” Lysithea hisses.

This must hit a nerve for Hilda, because she’s on her feet with the harsh scrape of her chair. Her face burns with fury. “You don’t get to tell me what to do.”

Linhardt, stuck between them, is holding out his hands. “Okay, everyone, I think we should just calm down and eat— ”

“No, Hilda, you don’t get to say no to where I take this ship—where I take my ship!”

Hilda slams a hand onto the table. The glasses rattle. Petra’s fork trembles, abandoned. She barely notices. “Then drop me off at fucking Almyra for all I care!”

She storms off, hair twisting angrily down her back. There is a second in which everyone is either staring at Lysithea or Hilda’s retreating back. No one speaks. Then Lysithea whirls to face the rest of them, opening her mouth to say something.

She doesn’t get to say it. Not with the sudden pitch of the ship to port side. The cacophonous crash of all the cutlery and dishes to the floor. Another distant boom as something hits the shields again.

Petra feels herself falling backwards and rolls into it, coming up on her feet. Dorothea is not so lucky. She falls face first over the table, tumbles once, and lands with her limbs splayed on Petra.

They both fall into a pile. Dorothea is once again too close to Petra. She smells unexpectedly of the ocean. But only for a second: the smell fades into something more synthetic. Petra is almost disappointed as she disentangles herself from her.

“You’re eager,” Dorothea says with a smirk, as if the spaceship they’re on wasn’t just hit by a foreign object. As if this is any time to be so blatantly flirting with her.

Still, Petra raises her eyebrows. “You were the one falling into me.”

Dorothea just smiles, leans closer. Petra tilts her chin up, looking her in the eye.

They are interrupted by Lysithea screaming, “Stop flirting, you two!” as she sprints towards the cockpit. “Oh, and please find Bernadetta. Get everyone to the front.”

Petra nods once, though not before turning to give Dorothea a look like, I told you so. Whirling to the hallway towards the engine room, she starts running. The ship careens sharply to port again, and she stumbles. Dorothea catches her arm— even though she had already righted herself. Petra shoots her a look. She shrugs, grinning.

Then they’re running down the hallway, shouting names.

Behind them, the dark outside the window ignites orange, and then fades to black again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thoughts on naming the next chapter 'blast from the past'? (you'll get it later lawl)
> 
> anyways i love this fic. i love it so much i have 10k words of outline on it, okay?? so like PLEASE enjoy it,, i'm holding you at gunpoint <3


	4. crestfallen (or, blast from the past)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lysithea demonstrates her true capabilities under fire.

This day is adding up to be the worst day Lysithea has had in five years. Before she can even finish the thought, her ship rocks beneath her feet and she has to throw herself over the dashboard to avoid breaking her nose on the floor. 

It's not as if it's unusual for them to be accosted. Normally, though, the attackers had the decency to radio in first. Give them a bit of a warning signal so they could get away.

There’s a yelp from behind her, and she whirls. Bernadetta scrambles to her feet as Lysithea glowers. “Sorry, sorry! I was fixing the piping for the combustion chambers and I think I must have fallen asleep but then something hit us?” She staggers the rest of the way into the cockpit, slamming into a chair as they’re nearly thrown once again.

Lysithea’s head snaps back around as something on the holoscreen begins to flash. Distantly, she can hear the sirens going off out the back. She exhales sharply, turning to pin Bernadetta with a stare. “You don’t also happen to know how to fly a ship, do you?”

She shrinks beneath Lysithea’s gaze. “Erm, well, I've done it in simulations…”

Lysithea has only known her for a few days and already knows that she is undershooting her own abilities. Still, she throws her the radio headset instead and tells her to try tuning into enemy airwaves. 

There’s another flash of orange. Lysithea turns to see a beam fly past the cockpit, following its trajectory back to the source.

All the blood drains from Lysithea’s limbs, drawn to the overwhelming pound of her heart. An AS-4SN model ship bears down on them, its signature grappling extensions blotting out the distant light of Adrestia. It seems to have stopped shooting, for now, instead choosing to just loom on their port side. 

“Uh, Captain, you might want to hear this,” Bernadetta mumbles. With a flick of a switch, radio static blankets the room.

“Why, hello there.” A bolt of fear shoots through her chest. She clenches the throttle, tries to will the rumble of her ship to calm her. But even the protective warmth of the Seraphim can’t help her now. “I’ve finally found you, pet.” The woman laughs, high and grating. The sound sends tremors through Lysithea’s arms. “You’re in big, big—”

She slams the button on the dashboard, banishing her voice. If only she could press a button to make the woman disappear too. If only it could be that easy.

Running footsteps sound down the hall. Hilda and Linhardt appear first, followed closely by Petra and Dorothea. “We heard voices,” Hilda started. “Are—”

“Fine,” she snaps. “Sit down.”

They all sit. Petra takes extra care to buckle herself in, while Dorothea simply lounges. Hilda’s lips are pressed into a thin line. Linhardt, miraculously, is yawning. “Captain,” Bernadetta prompts again. “She’s asking us to surrender. Says she won’t hurt us…” She blanches, gulps, then continues, “Won’t hurt us too much.”

“So, they’ve found you,” Linhardt says with a grim smile.

Lysithea wants to kick something. Five years of running, five years of hiding, all for this? For them to catch her unawares once again? She hadn’t wanted to see them like this. She’s the one who’s supposed to be sneaking up on them. She's the one who's supposed to be a looming, distant threat. She should have the upper hand. 

So, when Lysithea is faced with the option of surrender, the path of action is obvious. Laughingly, glaringly, terribly obvious.

She grits her teeth. Flips a few switches, grabs the throttle, and the steering wheel. “Tell that snake-faced bitch to go fuck herself.”

There’s a second where everything is still. Then they're hurtling away from the tall black ship, veering starboard for Leicester. The Seraphim’s engines are roaring. She’s rumbling beneath their feet, clanking and whirring busily. This is her natural state. This is what she was born for.

Lysithea can't help the grin that lights up her face as the stars begin to blur past them. 

Linhardt coughs lightly from behind her. She can practically see him pointing lazily as he says, “Airmid Field.”

She knows. She tells him that. 

A little light flashes orange, warning her of rapidly decreasing fuel levels. They hadn't had enough to go into hyperspace before anyway. This is the only way left to go.

“Wait,” Dorothea says from behind her. “We aren’t anywhere near the Myrddin Pass…we’re flying directly into that death-trap?”

Lysithea reaches above her to flick a switch. The lights in the cockpit go out, followed by the ones in the hallway, and then the ones in the living room. “We're diverting all power to the engines,” she says breezily, “So consider strapping in.”

She swears she can hear Bernadetta praying behind her. The console is telling her shields are at 40% capacity. She'd have to turn off the grav and oxygen generators. They'd have to rely on emergency manual filtration. 

A beam clips the port side, making the ship shudder. “Bernadetta, deactivate shields on my signal.”

It's a long shot, all in all. But everything Lysithea has ever achieved has been at the end of a long shot. 

She straps herself to the seat with a heavy click. With a flourish of her hands over the dash, the grav turns off. It's a peculiar feeling of weightlessness, only interrupted by yet another glancing shot off the back of the Seraphim.

Lysithea urges the throttle even further forward, her other hand finding the buttons for the oxygen. The console lights up red after the first switch, but she presses on. 

There's a low whirr as the fans slow, and then stop. She hears Linhardt suck in a deep breath. 

“Are you sure this is—” Hilda begins. 

Lysithea just snaps, “Shut up. You're wasting air.”

She can hear Hilda clamp her mouth shut with an audible snap of her teeth.

The first few asteroids are within her view now, looking almost languid in their tumbling. Her heart is thudding at the base of her throat, adrenaline already coursing its way through her, coiling around her stomach in an ever-tightening spiral of dread.

There's a sudden, bone-crunching crumple of metal. 

Lysithea sucks in a shuddering breath. A blaring signal bursts onto the holoscreen, accompanied by a diagram of the ship. Its top and bottom metal plating is flashing.

It seems Kronya has decided to make use of the grappling arms. As if hearing the thought, the crumpling grows louder. 

Lysithea’s hands begin to tremble on the steering. She squeezes her eyes shut, breathes deeply through her nose. Eyes flying open, she commands Bernadetta with, “Now!”

The dashboard flares red. The _Seraphim_ jerks violently backwards, only to fly forwards with renewed force. They’re inching away, teeth rattling at the force. Kronya may have the bigger ship, but Lysithea is sure that her old girl is faster. 

An asteroid thrice their size is hurtling towards them.

Lysithea stifles a wicked grin. Jerks the steering to the left. The rock just grates starboard side before they're out of the way. A laugh erupts from her lips as the arms of the AS-4SN are rammed by the asteroids.

The metal snaps. Release their grip with a sharp, whining scrape of metal-on-metal.

Dorothea whoops, clapping loudly as they tear off along the border of the asteroid field. The ship is shaking with the power of its engines, thunderous in its weaving among the spinning rocks.

More flashes of light speed past them as they run, pursued still by Kronya’s AS-4SN. 

Lysithea throws a sidelong glance at the upcoming asteroids, searching. The speed of these things would give them enough cover to be able to get by safely. Plus, the AS-4SN would be much too large to pursue.

The Seraphim begins bearing right towards the asteroids. Bernadetta lets out a squeal. 

A lucky shot from Kronya rocks the ship. The display flares with a flashing dot on the left engine. Already, Lysithea can feel them veering off course. She swears. “Bernadetta, stabilise the engines by diverting power from the right,” she says sharply. They’d have to sacrifice some speed but at least they’d be able to steer straight.

The gap is coming up rapidly. It is only just wide enough for their little ship, a ravine between two hulking pieces of rock. She has to time this perfectly. 

Holding her breath at the top of her lungs, Lysithea yanks the steering and pulls the throttle all the way back. The _Seraphim_ flips onto its side, scraping an asteroid with its hull before soaring away between the asteroids. A shot attempts to follow them, only to blow up on the same rocks.

Lysithea doesn’t even have time to celebrate her victory. There are asteroids spinning from every direction. With shields down, her concentration is of the utmost importance. Any rogue rock could break them into smithereens.

One narrowly passes on starboard side, whirling away at a horrible speed. Another grazes the ship’s side, making Linhardt inhale sharply. Bernadetta is still murmuring under her breath.

Lysithea’s grip on the steering is too tight. She can feel her pulse thrumming at her wrists, pressing up to her skin as if her heart wants to burst out.

She can't see everything, not like this. There's only one way they're all getting out of here alive. She has no other options.

Lysithea focuses her attention on a narrow gap ahead. Flexes her fingers and rolls her neck. It's time.

With a short, harried inhale, she activates her crest. Her first. 

The world sharpens around her. She can feel her consciousness leaking into the air, into the metal under her hands. 

When Lysithea activates the second, she can see with a hundred eyes. Raphael had been confused when she’d asked him for all the proximity sensors, but he hadn’t known. Hadn’t understood the extent of her power. When she’d asked Ignatz to paint her ship with these eyes, it had been with a laugh. He hadn’t understood it either.

The Lysithea in the ship sees a small asteroid collide with another, breaking the first into tiny pieces of shrapnel. The Lysithea in her body tilts the wheel. They spin, missing the piercing volley of shrapnel. 

She hears, from behind her and from all around, Dorothea murmur the question, “What is she doing?” 

“Saving your life,” she tells her, voice seeming to echo around the cockpit. They swerve to avoid another asteroid, completing a full roll. She can feel the ship moving beneath her, simultaneous with the weightlessness of flying.

She dodges another asteroid that comes from nowhere. Lysithea’s hands fly over the dash, fingers soaring from button to switch to the wheel again. They’re dancing in complicated manoeuvres, every motion perfectly in time, flowing into the next. She rocks with the ship, swaying as the bellow of her engines twines itself with the thunderous pound of her heart.

The initial flood of power is ebbing, retreating to be replaced by the dull burn. Pain throbs along her skull, lacing her awareness with red flashes of heat.

They're soaring, more graceful than Lysithea could have ever flown on her own. Weaving and ducking with the elegance of a live creature, so much more than just a hunk of metal.

Lysithea laughs, even as it hurts. She both feels herself laughing and hears it. She had forgotten the exhilaration of this power.

Then the pain turns sharp. Dizziness descends over her in a haze. Lysithea does not know which way is up anymore—is there an up in space? They dip suddenly, grazing the top of an asteroid. She feels it tearing away a hunk of metal like it’s a part of her own skin. 

Jerking away, bleeding out, Lysithea only drives them into another asteroid. Spinning wildly, screams blending into one another. She’s swaying too far now. Hands too tight on the steering. Too fast, strong grip on the throttle. 

A horrible crash into their port side, like a knife being driven into the hollow of her heart. Lysithea can hear the shriek. She realises it’s her own body, her own voice. It hurts, Goddess, it hurts. 

The pain burrows into her head and stays there, a pulsing core of pure, frigid heat. Eyes fluttering, a hundred eyes shuttering, Lysithea is falling. The Seraphim is falling. Up, into the sky? Or down, into space. 

Someone is prying her hands from the steering, with small fierce fingers. Someone else is unbuckling her from her seat. Limbs afloat, blood pounding listlessly through her body, Lysithea blinks blearily at Hilda. At Bernadetta at the wheel, legs hooked into the arms of her chair as she leans over the dash. It's too urgent for her to even properly strap herself down. 

The dashboard has been screaming for what seems like hours. Between blinks, Lysithea tries to read it. The Seraphim is dying, she can tell. Her fingers are numb. Why isn’t she floating? 

Hilda squeezes her tight. One hand stroking her head, the other wrapped around her torso. There’s something that she’s forgetting. Lysithea tries to ask Hilda what she’s forgetting, but she shushes her. She tells her that they can talk later.

That seems to calm Lysithea.

They dive suddenly, narrowly avoiding another asteroid. Lysithea flinches, as if it’s her own head that just missed being taken off.

Someone lays something cool over her head. She squints up at Linhardt’s pale face above her, his hand glowing a soft blue. The relief is instant. As the numbness seeps into her head, it dulls the blade sawing at her. Linhardt is muttering something. She thinks he says, “Trust you to pull that sort of idiocy.”

Lysithea laughs deliriously. Tries to ask if Bernadetta is doing a good job.

Hilda stares down at her with concern. “She’s doing fine,” she says softly. “You’re going to make it; we’re nearly there.”

Lysithea wants to believe her, she really does. But this power kills a little bit of her every time she goes to wield it. It’s a double-edged sword, cutting a chunk from her and letting her bleed out a little faster. At this rate, she has less than three years left to live. Not that she’s told anyone that secret, ever.

They’re still moving among the asteroids, though with considerably less grace than before. With every clip and glance and prod, Lysithea winces. She finds herself struggling against Hilda, trying to stagger back to the wheel. “It’s fine,” Hilda stresses. “You got us through the worst of it.”

And she’s right, Lysithea knows she is. But seeing her ship get battered makes her heart hurt. If she could just take control again, she could get them there safely, pain be damned. It isn’t like she’ll live longer than she already will—why try to preserve herself for better days?

With a final swoop and spin, the _Seraphim_ limps out of Airmid Field. Bleeding fuel into space. Lysithea sags in relief, followed by Bernadetta’s hefty sigh.

They’re just approaching Goneril airspace, Leicester glaringly gold, when the engines shudder, and then falter. The alert pops up on the dash: fuel empty. 

Lysithea, similarly, feels her eyelids drooping. “You’re captain,” she mutters, grabbing at Hilda’s arm. 

She shakes her head adamantly, laughing. “You’re delirious. No, I’m not.”

“For now, you are,” Lysithea mumbles. “Tell them”—she loses track of the thought, has to run after it to get it back—“that we’ve got a delivery.”

Before she can hear Hilda’s response, she’s falling into the blackness. Tumbling away into the depths of space. 

Lysithea falls asleep while her ship drifts listlessly towards its destination, too bloodied and broken to make it the rest of the way.


	5. a green, growing heart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dorothea talks to a lot of people—she knows their stories, but they don't know hers. Not yet, anyway.

They've been drifting for a few minutes now. It’s starting to get cold. Tension is strung so tight in the air between them that it feels like Dorothea could move and set off every single other person in their cramped cockpit. She wonders when someone will notice them in Goneril’s airspace.

Lysithea is still out cold. Dorothea stares hard at her as if she can somehow discern what has just happened. She knows those stories about Crests and whatnot. But normally it's the ultra-rich, daddy’s kids with those. Not too-small-for-their-age, cargo-running captains.

She goes to ask one of the two doting nurses about it, but cuts herself off. Hilda and Linhardt are tending to Lysithea with more care than she has received over her entire life. Dorothea swallows the envy welling up in her throat. The last person who’d cared for her like that is probably long-gone. 

“Hey, everyone, there’s someone paging us,” Bernadetta says hurriedly.

Hilda shakes her head. “No way in hell I’m taking it.”

There’s a second when they’re all looking at each other and then at the little green dot flashing on the dash. Finally, Dorothea says, “Fine,” and unbuckles herself. The weightlessness is strange as she floats up. She swims over to Bernadetta, pushing off of chairs. Taking the headset, she settles herself into the seat.

“Hit it.” She points to Bernadetta. “Also, I’m Dorothea. Didn’t see you at breakfast this morning.”

She grimaces. “Yeah. Sorry.”

“No need to apologise—”

Dorothea is interrupted by a loud crackle of static. “State your name and purpose,” comes a man’s voice.

“Dorothea Arnault. I think we’ve got something you want.” Absently, she twirls the wire around her finger. 

He sighs in a way that suggests he has better things to be doing, which is just plain rude. “And that would be?”

Dorothea turns to stare at the others, mouthing, ‘What are we delivering?’

Hilda shrugs helplessly, a furious frown weighing on her face. Linhardt mutters, “Medical supplies,” and then adds, “Tell him it’s the _Seraphim_.”

The tug-ships arrive promptly enough. Lysithea twitches once as they journey towards Goneril, muttering, “Kronya,” under her breath. 

“Is that her girlfriend, or what?” Dorothea asks with a grin. When both Hilda and Linhardt turn to glare at her, she raises her hands defensively. “Sorry.” She’d just been trying to lighten the mood, but whatever.

She turns to stare out the cockpit window. The view is definitely better from the front, she has to admit. The dark of space turns into the sky, intensely blue above the heavy cloud cover. Sunshine envelops them in warmth. Gravity resumes its hungry pull. 

As they begin to dive, Dorothea leans forward, waiting eagerly to see what the planet looks like. This is, by all means, the furthest she’s ever been from the Imperial Capitol. 

They breach the clouds, and Dorothea is faced with more green than she has ever experienced in her life. Neat squares of farmlands divide the countryside, interspersed with pockets of leafy trees. Houses dot the landscape, connected by winding dirt roads. As they fly on, the roads grow straighter, the houses bigger. Plots of farms begin to be replaced by towns, towns begin to be replaced by skyscrapers.

“Where are we going?” Dorothea hears Petra ask. 

She doesn’t have to turn around to know Hilda’s frowning when she replies, “Herzentrum. The Heart of Goneril.”

Dorothea peers ahead. The Heart of Goneril certainly seems different to the Capitol. It’s constructed in a tiered-way, a sprawling mass of stone, glass, and greenery. Cobbled roads and paths twist between buildings. All is covered in a thin layer of vines and moss. As Dorothea stares, she can make out people tending to vertical farms along the fringes. 

Rising above it all is a towering spire, nestled in the very centre of the city. It shines in the midday sunshine, a towering amalgamation of glass and plants. Ships land and take off from the spire’s open platforms, bees working busily from their hive.

Dorothea wonders where the poor live. Did they have slums here too? Or were the destitute just erased from existence, brushed out of sight like dust. Every city, no matter how shiny and new and eco-friendly, had its shadows. Some just managed to cheat their way out of the shadows and into the sun.

“Fódlan’s Locket, we call it,” Hilda says quietly. “They call it.” Everyone pretends not to notice the mistake.

Dorothea laughs. “What about a shiny glass tower makes you think of a locket?”

The glare Hilda shoots her is tempered only by Linhardt’s snort. “She has a point,” he says.

Hilda just rolls her eyes. “I’m going to my room,” she says shortly, carefully lowering Lysithea onto Linhardt’s lap. Dorothea doesn't miss the careful way she tucks a loose strand of Lysithea's hair behind her ear. She lowers her voice, glancing furtively at the Locket. “Don’t say anything about me.”

Then she’s off, walking in measured strides for someone clearly so panicked about being on this planet, in this city. Dorothea stares after her, running through the options in her head. Disappointed family? A job she didn’t want. A bad relationship? None of them seem to fit the often-churlish, very glamorous, pink-haired woman. 

Bernadetta takes Dorothea’s place at the console as they draw nearer to the Locket. The spire is grander up close; she can make out balcony gardens lining the gentle curve of its height, people eating in restaurants facing outwards into the sky. It seems like paradise, almost.

The landing gear emerges with a clunk that rocks the ship. As soon as Bernadetta lets the doors open, and they’re immediately accosted by a trio of security personnel. Two are draped in red, but the one in front is in gold. Dorothea notes the holsters at their waists as they clomp into the cockpit. “Could we have your immigration passes, please,” the woman in front says, eyeing them flintily. Even with the please, it’s clearly not a request.

Dorothea and Petra meet each other’s eyes. She’s stiffened ever so slightly. It seems that they had both, stupidly, not considered the need for official documentation. When Dorothea turns to Linhardt, he just shrugs, and motions to the still unconscious Lysithea. There’s no authoritative captain to bullshit them out of this one, it seems.

Well, it seems like it’s all up to Dorothea. Again.

“Sorry, but that’s going to have to wait,” Dorothea says, standing and squaring her shoulders. She stares the leading woman right in the eye, suppressing a flinch as she stares right back. “We have a very ill passenger here that requires immediate medical attention.” She motions towards Lysithea. “Further, the medical supplies requested are in the hold, spoiling as we speak. You know how medical-gel melts,” she asserts, gesturing widely.

“But, of course,” she continues, “waste our precious time with your little immigration processes.” It has been a while since she's had to play the diva. It's exactly as fun as she remembers, though it had never been a life-saving kind of thing before.

Dorothea can feel her lips twitching as she holds the gaze of the woman before her. While she was talking, she’d crossed her arms, lips flattening into a thin line. Dorothea stares at her, hard, trying to think about the way her orange hair clashed with the uniform, rather than the fact that this woman could probably just kill her there. Or worse, have her arrested.

“I’m waiting,” Dorothea adds imperiously, sighing as if she had better places to be. It was only rude if she was the one receiving it.

The woman exhales heavily through her nose, projecting the image of a much older woman despite looking younger than Dorothea herself. It’s obvious she’s trying to suppress an eye-roll. “Get a medic,” she snaps to the one on her left. “And go find some other people to unload the supplies.”

Then she turns her beady eyes on Dorothea, a smug smile forming on her face. “And you’re coming with me.”

While Dorothea’s first thought is, ashamedly, one of panic, she soon realises that the woman is not taking her to a prison cell. In fact, the carpeted hallways are only becoming finer the further into the spire they walk. Windows run the length of hallways, displaying a glorious view of the surrounding cityscape, framed by trailing plants. 

A few people wander about, some flicking through documents on their holo-screens, others strolling along to enjoy the view. Dorothea only feels increasingly shabby as they go further, her short hair tickling her neck and her new-old coat itchy on her arms. 

Finally, they stop in front of a set of expansive doors, the burgundy-stained wood wrought with gold palm trees and vines. Dorothea still hasn’t decided whether the woman accompanying her is a soldier, a glorified guard, or some sort of armed butler. “Refer to the dukes as ‘Your Grace’, and the Count as ‘Your Excellency’,” the soldier-guard-butler says, before knocking sharply and stepping aside, leaving Dorothea stranded in the middle of the fine rug.

Dorothea almost wants to grab her back, but the doors swing open with a quiet whoosh and it’s too late. An actual butler of some sort is staring at her, eyebrow raised haughtily. “Yes?” he says down his nose. It’s a lot of attitude for a man in an ugly red suit.

She wants to roll her eyes, but refrains. Instead, she tilts her chin up, attempting to project his self-importance right back at him. “I’m here to see Their Graces and His Excell—”

There’s a bark of laughter from inside, and then a man’s voice. “Lorenz! Did you hear that? She mentioned us first.”

Then the butler is ushering her inside. The doors close as quietly as they’d opened, but it’s with a sense of finality this time. Dorothea gulps, readjusts her collar, and looks down the long table at three men.

The one on the left is staring down at her with even more haughtiness than the butler, somehow. A rose sprouts from his lapel, its perfume so strong she can smell it from metres away. When she meets his gaze, he scoffs, and goes back to perusing the documents on the table.

The man on the right is tall, strikingly, intimidatingly so. He looks to be made of pure muscle, even further proven by the massive, softly-pulsing axe resting beside his hands on the table. He smiles in her direction, but the expression is impersonal.

When she finally shifts her gaze to the one standing at the end of the table, she’s met with a beaming smile. This man is studying her like she is studying him, a subtle shrewdness masked by the brightness of his smile. “You really referred to us before Count Gloucester?” he says with another laugh. “Brilliant.”

Count Gloucester, presumably, lets out a long-suffering sigh. “Be quiet, Claude. We have a guest, right there.”

He snorts. “I know, Hellman, I was just speaking to her.” The count scoffs, but doesn’t rebuke. “Anyway.” He turns his attention back to Dorothea. “I heard the medical supplies arrived, thanks to you?”

She swallows the lump forming in her throat, nodding. “Yup. I mean, it’s really thanks to our captain, Lysithea.” At a reproachful frown from ‘Hellman’, she adds, sarcastically, “Your Grace.”

Claude grins. “No need for that formality here, you’re with friends.” Hellman—Dorothea really doesn’t believe that’s his real name—scoffs again, which only seems to make Claude’s smile widen. “But since your captain is, well, out of commission for the moment, I’d like to offer you all my personal thanks.”

The one that hasn’t spoken chooses now to do it, voice rumbling and deep. “Indeed. Thank you, greatly. We are in dire need of any and all supplies.”

Dorothea has never liked looking too closely at men, especially noble ones, but he looks oddly familiar. She gets the sense she’s seen him somewhere before, though where, she doesn’t know.

“There you go, a personal thanks from the Duke Goneril himself,” Claude says. “Now, I would also like you to extend an invitation to your entire crew”—he says this with a wink, for some reason—“to a feast tonight. As thanks, from me.”

Hellman splutters, running a graceful hand through his long, shining hair. “Now you’re inviting commoners, cargo-runners no less, to—”

Claude talks over him, saying, “Don’t worry about this stick-arse. Just ask Leonie here for directions. Seven o’clock, local time? She’ll remind you.”

The butler has reappeared at her side, tapping her on the arm. Dorothea turns to leave, trailing the man as the guards outside open the door once again. “Oh, and I mean everyone,” Claude adds.

She throws up a hand without turning, to show she’d heard him. Dorothea suppresses a smile as the Count makes another indignant noise.

*

When Dorothea and crew walk out onto the balcony, it’s to a small group. Claude, Count Gloucester, and Duke Goneril are all seated at a short table at the farthest reaches of the place. There is a conspicuous spare seat between Claude and the Duke. Leonie marches off to stand behind Claude without a word, leaving the crew of the Seraphim to drift to the other table. 

“Good evening, everyone,” Claude says, standing. Dorothea glances at the others: Linhardt, Petra, and Bernadetta. They’d only just managed to drag her out of her room to attend this. She hopes Claude didn’t actually mean everyone, considering that Lysithea is still knocked out cold somewhere in the Locket. 

He nods to their table. “Friends of the Seraphim. Today’s feast is in thanks to you, for all of your invaluable aid to the Goneril forces.” Claude claps his hands, and waitstaff begin walking out with dishes. His grin is infectiously bright. “Now, enough waiting. Let's eat!”

Dorothea sits through it all in a daze. The food is incredible, an array of noodles and rice, platters towering with steamed fish and fresh leafy greens. It’s so different to the rich, deep-fried affair of the Capitol. Even their alcohol sparkles in her mouth, rather than burning a path down her throat.

All of this is surreal, somehow. A few days ago, she was a criminal on the run. Today, she’s…well, still a criminal on the run, but in much more luxury at the very least.

Once they’re all done with the final dish, a coconut jelly of some sort, more waitstaff appear to whisk away tables and chairs, leaving the floorspace clear. A few begin circulating with flutes of even more champagne, which Dorothea gratefully accepts.

She’s slightly tipsy by the time Claude corners her standing at the balcony’s edge. Up this high, the wind should be tearing them all to pieces, but it’s only a brisk, warm breeze. As if reading the thought, he says, “One of my new engineers manufactured a near invisible holo-shield for this place. Protects us from the elements, as well as, y’know, bombings.”

Dorothea makes a vague noise of agreement before turning and attempting to stroll away. 

Claude, predictably, catches her wrist. Though he does let it go as soon as she spins back around with an arched eyebrow. “I did say everyone, did I not?” He asks the question jovially, but his eyes are frigid. They drill into Dorothea’s own, a storm whirling in a snowglobe.

She smiles, leaning casually on the railing. “This is everyone, except Lysithea, obviously. We even got dear old Bernie out of her room.” 

This doesn’t seem to be the answer that Claude had wanted when he began this entire encounter, because he frowns. Leans closer, resting a hand on the railing beside her. Duke or not, Dorothea knows men don’t like not getting what they want. Not that it has ever stopped her from irking them. She doesn’t know what he wants from her, but she’s not going to let him have it that easy. 

“I heard recently that a certain common thief of Enbarr liberated an entire truck-full of other criminals. Last I heard, she’d escaped the port without a trace. Would her name ring any bells, Miss Arnault?”

Dorothea’s heart jumps, but she just focuses on the act of curling her fingers around the champagne glass, letting the cool condensation seep into her skin. Then, looking him right in the eye, she downs the entire thing in one gulp.

“I have no idea what you’re insinuating, Your Grace.” She tilts her head slightly, playing into the flirtatious framing of everything. After all, someone as shrewd as Claude didn’t get away with so blatantly threatening people without a little trickery.

His expression freezes over, the smile replaced by a cold scowl. “Hilda Valentine Goneril. You’ve seen her, haven’t you?” He’s slipping, desperation leaking through the rough edges of his voice.

Everything seems to slot into place. There is the backstory that she’d been trying to piece together. Her reluctance to be here, her secretiveness about her past, the similarities between her and Duke Goneril. 

Dorothea pushes herself off the railing with her elbows, pivoting neatly to face him properly. She leans closer, laying a gentle hand on his shoulder, trailing it down the edge of his waistcoat. “You seem to know a thing or two about names, so why don’t you work it out yourself?” She beams, sugar-sweet. “Now if you’ll excuse me—”

She bows. Saunters away, snatching another glass from a server. Duke Riegan is certainly a cunning one. Though for a man so self-possessed, he has one clear weakness. She’s hiding right under his nose, and Dorothea intends to find out why.

*

The first time Dorothea knocks, there’s no response. When she knocks again, more insistent this time, she hears a drawn-out groan. Hilda throws the door open with a scowl. Her hair is down and her face is free of makeup; it’s the first time Dorothea has seen her like this. She decides not to comment, instead greeting her with, “Look what I got from your boyfriend.”

She pulls out a little golden arrow brooch, and hands it to Hilda. Her face rapidly goes through a series of expressions, from shock to rage to confusion. “You’d better explain this, Arnault,” she says softly, voice seething.

The only explanation is that Claude von Riegan is not as smart or perceptive as he thinks he is, but she isn’t going to tell her that.

Dorothea grins and barges into the room, throwing herself into a beanbag on the floor. Hilda’s room is, unsurprisingly, impeccably decorated. A collection of photos adorn the far wall. There's a large poster for some 22nd century romance novel, and a small number of books neatly lined on a shelf. Softly flickering fairy lights are the only light source in the room, shading everything pink. 

Hilda stalks over to her double bed—Dorothea feels cheated by her own single bunk—and sits down. The anger simmers off her like summer heat on asphalt. She's squeezing the brooch so tightly in her fist that Dorothea is surprised there's no blood seeping out. “So,” Dorothea begins.

“So,” Hilda prompts when she doesn’t continue. Dorothea is still trying to decide the best way to approach the topic when Hilda just starts talking. “He asked you about me, didn’t he?” She releases a hoarse growl of frustration. “It’s been five years. Five. Fucking. Years.”

Dorothea nods slowly, throwing a careful glance at the door. “Yeah. Sounds like you guys had a great breakup.”

“It was less of a breakup and more of a…well.” Hilda refocuses on Dorothea, looking almost apprehensive as she continues, “But what did he say to you?”

“Oh, he just asked if I’d heard your name. Which I hadn’t.” Dorothea grins, clasping her hands together. “No wonder you were so secretive about everything. You could actually fund me for the rest of my life.”

Hilda grimaces. “I was hoping it would be longer before you found out.”

“So, what’s the story there? I’m sure it’s rife with all the melodrama that makes an opera: a duchess runaway with a tragic backstory; her ex-boyfriend-duke lover who still searches for her; and her eventual, unwilling return to—”

“Okay, okay, stop.” Hilda sighs. “It’s really not that big of a deal. I mean, it’s not like that.”

Dorothea sits up, leans her chin on her hands on her knees. “I’m listening.”

Hilda rolls her eyes in a manner so reminiscent of Lysithea that one of them must have learnt it off the other. “If I tell you, will you get out of my room?”

“Maybe. No guarantees. It’s a lot nicer in here than in mine.”

Hilda smirks. It’s the closest thing to positive reinforcement that Dorothea is ever going to get from her. “But your room has Petra.”

Dorothea’s cheeks grow warm, and she sputters, “Just tell me the story!”

This prompts a laugh from Hilda. “Sorry.” She doesn’t sound sorry at all. “But, okay, fine. We were happy, and then we weren’t. I got into an argument with Holst, my brother—”

“The duke,” Dorothea has to interject with an arch of her eyebrows.

“The duke,” Hilda says with a sigh. “Anyway, then when Claude—”

“The other duke?”

“Do you want to hear this or not?” That gets Dorothea to shut up. Hilda readjusts her posture, staring disdainfully in Dorothea’s general vicinity. Now that she knew about her little secret, Dorothea couldn’t stop picking up on the clues. “Then Claude got involved and took his side? Can you believe it? So I left.”

They listen to the soft whistle of the wind. Dorothea isn’t sure whether she’s pausing for dramatic effect or if this is it. Hilda fixes that problem for her. “There you go. Get out of my room.”

“Wait, wait, wait. That’s it? Where’s the drama? I was promised passion!”

“It’s such a long story. Too much work to explain it all to you. But you get the gist of it, yeah?”

Dorothea shakes her head. “No, I don’t actually—”

“And you’re the one that inserted the drama. It’s not that deep; we’re exes.”

Dorothea knows that it’s deeper than that. She heard the desperation in Claude’s voice. She’s seeing the way Hilda is clutching that brooch like it’s more than a hunk of shitty metal. There’s a love story here, or the remains of one.

She’s ready to insist that Hilda tell her the story properly this time, though she knows she isn’t at all entitled to it. Dorothea is interrupted by a knock at the door.

They both swivel to see, Goddess’ tits, Bernie with her head stuck in the room. “Hi. Uh, do you guys want to play Poison?” She waves a deck of battered cards in their direction.

Hilda is out the door before Dorothea can call her back. She sighs, but it’s fine. She’s starting to think Hilda may actually enjoy her company. 

Dorothea arrives to almost the entire crew assembled around the table once again. Linhardt looks to be dozing off. Bernie has nestled herself between him and Hilda, eyes darting to the closed ramp doors. Petra’s smile lights up her face as she sees Dorothea. She gestures to the seat beside her, which Dorothea takes with a grin. She doesn’t miss the smug, I-told-you-so look that Hilda shoots her from beside Petra.

It seems they’re all a little eager to take their minds off of what happened last night. 

The game seems simple enough as Bernie explains it. Get rid of all thirteen of your cards first to win. They play around the circle clockwise, having to play a higher card than the last person or pass. 

Dorothea later finds out that the poison the game refers to is the spirits that inexplicably find their way into their midst. Petra smiles as she pours her a shot, triumph weighing the hand doling out Dorothea’s poison. Dorothea’s high card was ‘poisoned’, and now she was to be poisoned too.

The cheap-grade vodka sloshes over the rim of the metal cup as Dorothea lifts it. Throwing Petra a wink, she downs it in a gulp. 

They’re back to slamming down cards, shouting and screaming over the top of one another. Dorothea’s head spins in that pleasant, slightly sickening way, as she watches Petra jump to her feet with a crow of victory. She joins the rest of them in urging Bernie to drink, the syllables tripping on her tongue. 

Bernie is laughing out loud, still with more wins under her belt than the rest of them combined. Linhardt has fallen asleep, a bowl balanced on the top of his head courtesy of Dorothea. A little trail of drool has already dried on its way down his chin. 

Dorothea struggles to concentrate on the game. Suddenly they’re not even playing it anymore, just yelling, “Shots, shots, shots!” like fucking lunatics. The reflected light of Fódlan’s Locket bleeds through the windows, washing them in silver. 

Then Hilda is clutching Dorothea by the shoulders, her pale eyes serious as she asks, “Be honest. How many times have you had sex?” Then she giggles, and adds, “I can’t even begin counting how many times Claude and I did it”—another laugh—“when we were at boarding school together.”

“There’ve been three people,” Dorothea begins, holding up four fingers and then frowning as she puts one down. “Some random girl I met at a bar, another girl but this time a lighter blonde, and this fuckwit called Caspar—”

Hilda shrieks. “No, von Bergliez?” When Dorothea nods vigorously, she begins cackling. “I had a one time thing with him once, before Claude.” She shudders. “He was so obviously…”

“Gay?” Dorothea finishes. Hilda laughs so hard she nearly drags Dorothea off her own chair.

“I stole a ton of his money, you know,” Dorothea is telling her before she can think better of it. “Blew it all on dresses.” The grief hits her hard as soon as she says it. Those dresses are gone now. Her little apartment has been reclaimed by the authorities, and all of her things with it.

Hilda looks up at her, clarity shining through her clouded eyes. “Wait, you stole from him?”

Dorothea is saved by the sudden appearance of Petra, also drunk off her shit. She drapes her arms around Dorothea’s neck. She smells like nature in a way that Dorothea can’t begin to describe. “You are very beautiful,” Petra whispers. Her lips tickle Dorothea’s ear. She tries very hard not to let her mind wander off to where else those lips could go.

It’s suddenly too hot. She can feel Petra all over her, warm skin on skin, the smell of rain and salt enveloping her. Hilda looks like she’s about to ask her something else, so Dorothea whirls and seizes Petra’s hand.

“Let’s go on the roof!” She grabs a bottle and drags Petra up the metal stairs spiraling away up into the ceiling. Once they get to the little loft hanging high above everyone else, there is another way up: a ladder, and a hatch.

Dorothea curtsies to Petra, before pulling the ladder down with a smooth clank. Petra laughs, bows in return. When she looks up at Dorothea again, it’s with a smile so bright that she feels warmed from the inside just looking at her. The diamond under her eye shifts ever so slightly when she smiles like this; Dorothea wants to reach out and brush it with her finger.

Then Petra has scuttled up the ladder before she can blink. Cold air seeps down as she throws the hatch open. She spares Dorothea a smirk, saying, “What is it you are waiting for?”

Dorothea lets Petra help her out of the hatch, despite being fine getting out herself. It’s freezing out here, but the raised walls of the makeshift terrace manage to shelter them from the majority of the wind. Still, Dorothea takes it as an opportunity to huddle herself as close to Petra as possible.

They uncork the bottle with a pop, realising upon the fizzle of bubbles that it’s champagne. Dorothea takes a mouthful before handing it to Petra. They stare at the stars, watching the occasional bat or owl flap past. Dorothea can’t stop thinking about how awfully romantic this is.

“Two truths, one lie,” she says suddenly.

She feels Petra shift against her, slinging her arm more securely around Dorothea’s shoulder. “I am not understanding.”

“Here, I’ll go.” Dorothea nestles herself against Petra’s shoulder, realising too late that this might not be the best idea. She shoulders on, finally saying, “I played in an opera once. I have a metal hand. I like women exclusively.” She tilts her head to look at Petra, finds her already gazing at her. “Guess which one’s the lie.”

Petra’s lips curve in a smirk. “Easily done. You are lying about the metal hand.”

“Yes, but only kind of. I actually have two.” She puts down the half-emptied champagne bottle to hold her hands up for Petra to see, as if she would be able to just tell. 

Petra takes them into her own hands gently, lifting and fiddling with her fingers. “I cannot be discerning whether you are joking.”

“I have really played in an opera before. Back when I was…” Dorothea swallows. “Back when I was pretending.” Petra tilts her head, a question in the press of her lips. Dorothea blunders on. “I had them all believing I was one of them. Esther Casagranda, daughter of long lost heiress, Manuela Casagranda. We were practically royalty.”

The story flows from her, the rush of the dam before it can be blocked back up. “We were playing them, of course. Siphoning off their money, both as friends and as thieves. My goal was Duke von Aegir, that bastard.” She lifts her hands again. “He’s the reason I have these.”

She looks up at Petra, and finds her watching her.

Petra’s eyes are so dark that they could swallow Dorothea up whole. She would gladly let them, if only she could spend another moment in her company. 

“Uh, could you please be telling me of how it happened?” Petra’s query draws Dorothea out of her reverie.

It’s not a story that Dorothea has ever had to repeat. She’s not sure she could, even if she wants to. “I stole his wife’s rings off her fingers. I was a child, too cocky off of my last job. He caught me, had me made an example of.”

Dorothea fiddles with the knuckle of her left pinky. It’s always been a little loose, the screws coming undone under her skin. “I wandered, half dead from blood-loss, into a physician’s office. There was only a girl working there, only a few years older than me. She looked after me. Manuela was there too, the first night, drunk off her feet. She was there every single night of the week that I rested there. By the time I was stable enough to leave, Manuela had decided to take me under her wing, for reasons I still don’t understand. She—she made me who I am today.”

She realises she’s tensed against Petra, afraid to look at her, afraid to risk seeing anything close to disapproval. There’s a minute of quiet, just the wind to fill the void, before Petra says, “I am missing my homeland every day. I am trapped on all sides, no choices of my own. And I, um, am disliking dogs.”

It takes Dorothea a moment to realise those are her two truths and one lie. She manages a dry laugh, swallows the lump in her throat. She couldn’t imagine Petra disliking anything. “You can’t lie for shit; it’s obviously the third one.”

Petra exhales. “You are right, of course. I am loving dogs very much.”

Dorothea smiles. Takes a long swig of champagne. “Tell me about your truths. If you want.”

“I left because it is my destiny. I am trying to save my grandfather, and my brother. My parents”—her voice wobbles—“are gone now, spirits rest them well. This sector is…strange, its people stranger.”

Dorothea nods, unsure of what to say. She burrows in closer to Petra, squeezing her hands in her own. “Maybe we can cook one of the dishes from your home?” she suggests. It’s getting harder to keep her eyes open between blinks.

She squeezes Dorothea’s hand back once, the beginning of a pulse. “There is no possibility, they are not having the ingredients here.” 

“Well, I’ll find a way. Whatever you need, Petra, I’ll do it for you.” And she means it, even though she’s drunk. She means it, the words golden and true. She turns to look at Petra, glowing in the moonlight.

She smiles, radiant, and murmurs, “You are filling my heart full, Dorothea.”

That renders her speechless.

Petra’s hands let go of hers. One trails up her arm, the other snaking around her waist. Dorothea holds her breath, heart beating wildly at the top of her throat. She’s moving so slowly, her fingertips light. Her skin tingles where Petra touches, leaving trails of goosebumps as she reaches her shoulder. Her hand is featherlight on the back of Dorothea’s neck. The other hovers just above her hip, stirring a pooling, pulsing warmth within Dorothea.

Dorothea swallows, leans closer. Petra’s eyelashes tickle her cheeks. Her eyes are dark and soft around the edges. Her lips are even softer when she lowers them to Dorothea’s, the touch so gentle that she barely feels it.

Dorothea doesn’t dare to breath as she leans in again, feels her on her lips once more. She does it again, more insistently this time, taking Petra’s lips between her own. Then, Petra releases a tiny moan as she sighs against her. 

Dorothea slides a hand into Petra’s hair, seizes her by the waist with the other. She presses her against the wall as she kisses her deeply, kisses her with all the wanting that lights the coals of her heart. Petra pulls her tighter against her.

She tastes like champagne, warm and bubbly and golden. Like sunshine, Dorothea thinks, before Petra is drawing her back into the kiss with a tug on her hair.

She pulls away, grinning wildly. Petra is mirroring her expression, moonlight dancing on the surface of her eyes. “Wow,” Dorothea murmurs in her drunken haze.

When she repeats it, Petra laughs. “Come here,” she says, “kiss me again.” She holds her arms open, an invitation, a beckoning, a testament of what they both know is to come.

The cold can’t touch Dorothea anymore, wrapped up as she is in the embrace of her lover.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this one is a WHOPPER my guys. around 5.5k words! things are happening!!
> 
> [doropetra song!](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3cybcpwEKJo)


	6. when blood runs clear as water, cold as ice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hilda comes off her drunk buzz only to confront a ghost.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [today's song?](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=StSEXZcwOB4)

Washed in a splash of cold moonlight, Hilda ruminates. This has always been the worst part of it all: coming off the high, weight on her shoulders once again. She considers the bottle in her hand, but decides against it. 

Beside her, Bernadetta is crying. Hilda isn't really sure what to do, so she just offers her some more vodka. 

Bernie shakes her head. So Hilda stands up, wincing, and stumbles over to the freezer. Bernie accepts the ice-cream as soon as she returns, and begins to eat it in pathetic spoonfuls.

Hilda opens her own carton—a girl needs her comforts. But just the first taste of artificial strawberry is enough to make her stomach roil, and she has to set it down on the ground beside her. For her favourite flavour, it tastes quite shit.

“You know, I think Edelgard would have liked Lysithea,” Bernie is telling her. Hilda is struck by guilt, right between the eyes, at the mention of Lysithea. She blinks quickly, forces herself to think of anything else.

She looks at Bernie properly as she swipes at her eyes and eats another spoonful of ice cream. “She also has—had two crests.” Another spoonful. “She was so powerful. She had an axe like yours. We used to spar together, back when I lived at the Capitol. We used to do a lot, back when I lived at the Capitol.”

Hilda offers Bernie her abandoned ice cream, and she takes it gratefully. “You must've loved her a lot,” Hilda says softly. It isn't a hard thing to guess.

Bernie shifts, turning a red-rimmed gaze onto her. “I think I must've,” she breathes, eyes unfocused. “And now she’s gone. I never even told her. I never should have asked her for that satellite. I'm such a—an idiot. Useless, stupid…”

She starts crying again, gulping air in between sobs. Hilda still doesn't know what to do, so she just fetches her some water and puts an awkward hand on her back. She squeezes Bernie’s hand with the other. It's all she can do. It seems she can't even be good at this comforting thing.

Still, Bernie squeezes her hand so tight it hurts. Her breathing slows soon enough. She sits back, wiping her face with her sleeve. Hilda doesn't have the heart to tell her that it leaves a long grease stain down her cheek.

“I'm going to sleep now,” she murmurs. “Thank you for the water. And the ice cream.” She gestures to the now-empty cartons with a weak smile.

Hilda nods. “You're welcome. I'm…glad I could help.”

Bernie waves, taking a blanket off one of the couches as she goes. That leaves Hilda on her own, apart from Linhardt snoring at the table. He barely counts though, with the way he gets knocked out on alcohol. At least before, Lysithea had been here to keep her company when Linhardt conked it. But now she’s lying in some hospital bed that Hilda can't even visit.

Because she's a coward. A lousy fucking coward. 

It's been five years and somewhere along the way it stopped being ‘I can't go back because I haven't proven myself yet,’ and turned into, ‘I can't go back because it's been too long.’ She can change as much as she wants, but the excuses change with her.

Hilda reaches into her pocket and brings out the brooch. It glints in the dull light, far too shiny for something so old. Claude must polish it. The thought makes her smile in a sad kind of way.

She'd made him this, years ago. A few years later, in a fit of rage, she’d thrown her own matching one into the trash. She wonders where it's gone now, that little piece of her heart. 

Hilda stands without thinking, feet leading her back to her room. She crouches on the rug, sliding a box out from underneath her bed. It's simple, grey, unadorned.

She opens it.

The items are assorted. A scruffy teddy bear, with a massive ribbon wrapped around its middle. A lone, glass earring hewn in shades of green. A stack of cards and notes tied together with string. A single pink pawn from some board game. There's a number of books too: 19th century romance, a guide to flowers, an almanac of card games. 

Hilda takes everything out carefully. Lays it around her as she sits, running fingers over everything as if that alone could coax back the happy memories. 

It almost works: she sees nights spent reading in candlelight with Marianne, flights with Lorenz as he talked nonstop, hours of board games with all four of them. Then the memories begin to clog up her throat. She hadn't even said goodbye to them when she'd left. What was the last thing she'd said to Claude?

Hilda packs it all neatly away. She touches the shining surface of the brooch once more before putting that in too. The lid seals with a little whoosh of air. She tapes it down.

Sniffling, she stands and tucks it against her chest. She doesn't know where she's going exactly, but she doesn't want this shit in her room, not anymore. She's held on for five years, and now it's got to go.

Hilda's blinking fast, head tilted up to stop the tears from leaking out. She can feel the sobs building in her chest, shuddering waves that will wash her breath away. Telling herself not to cry only seems to make the impulse stronger.

She's still stubbornly urging her tears back inside her when she hears it. Someone is whistling up ahead. That in itself wouldn't have been too suspicious except for the fact that everyone was asleep. Or in a hospital.

That, and the fact that Hilda doesn't know who else in the crew would ever do something as annoying as whistle.

So, she slows. Sticks closer to the wall. The lights flicker above her—the repairs haven't gotten to those yet, it seems. The tune being whistled sounds familiar; that only makes the dread coil tighter in her stomach.

Padding forwards, she can feel a little bit of snot running down her face. She swipes at it, sniffling instinctively.

The whistling stops.

Then, a voice. “Is it just me, or did you paint our constellation up there?”

Hilda freezes a metre from the living room. The voice continues, “Unless I'm just looking for things that aren't there.”

He sounds so different when it isn't over a hologram or an old video. His voice is a little deeper too, a little rustier around the edges. He sounds…older. Though she supposes she might too.

He’s right too. She did paint their constellation up there; she’d hidden it in the corner. It had been a silly, girlish thing to do. She wishes that she'd never done it, just so he couldn't have asked her about it in this moment.

“Hilda,” he says. Her name sounds strange on his tongue. It sounds wrong, like it shouldn't be there. “I know you're there.”

She remembers, vividly, that she is in her pyjamas: sweatpants and a tank-top. Oh Goddess, she can't face him like this. She needs a dress, some make-up, maybe a shower? The previous tears are threatening to re-emerge.

Hilda does the only thing she's ever been good at. She turns on her heel and walks away. From behind her, she can hear him advancing. Boots clicking on the floor.

Hilda runs. He'd already seen her, there was nothing left to do. Feet beating out a rhythm in time with her heart, she throws herself into her room and slams the door shut. She presses her back to it, leaning her entire weight on the metal. The box of memories sits cold beside her.

His footsteps slow as they grow nearer. Hilda is relieved when he doesn't try to slide the door open again. She listens to him pacing back and forth, until finally he stops and says, “Hilda, please, just listen to me.”

She can’t bring herself to say anything. Sliding slowly into a crouch, she wraps her arms around her knees. Tucks her cheek against her legs and tries not to think about Claude, outside her door. Claude, nearer to her than she’d ever been ready for after five years.

It’s so quiet that she’s almost sure he’s just left. She’s proven wrong, however, by the slip of paper sliding under the door. On it, written in his signature scrawl, is, ‘Please?’ He’s even drawn a little picture of the two of them holding hands.

Hilda sighs. Only Claude would root up a distant memory as leverage. The paper crumples in her fist, and she throws it across the room.

The next one just has a sad face on it. She doesn’t even take it. Not even when Claude wiggles it enticingly from under the door.

She hasn’t moved from her spot when he pushes another one under. It just says, ‘I’m sorry.’

Hilda stares at the scrap of paper. Then, she stands. Hands on the lock, she wipes roughly at the tears stinging her eyes. The lock clicks.

The door slides open with a hollow scrape.

Claude has a hand halfway through his hair. It drops to his side as he meets her eyes. A grin splits his face, with all the boyishness of that same idiot’s smile five years ago. 

When she doesn’t return the gesture, his smile droops a little. He clears his throat, opens his mouth to say something, and then shuts it again. Hilda has never seen him so speechless; the thought only stirs unease.

Finally, when he does say something, it’s slow and deliberate. “I missed you.”

She ignores the twist of the words in her gut. “Do you mean it?” she asks, voice even. “Are you sorry?”

“I’m sorry that you left, yes.”

Hilda sighs. It’s a short, angry exhale of air. The space of five years has not made his manipulations easier to withstand. “If that’s how you feel, then forget it.”

She shoves past him, rough enough for him to stumble. He catches her arm. “Wait, listen—”

“And when was the last time you listened to me?” she snarls, whirling to face him. Her blood thrums in her ears. She can feel the shuddering building up in her chest again.

Claude looks shocked. Maybe that’s even hurt passing across his face. Good, she thinks savagely. He had hurt her with more than a few little words five years ago.

“That’s not what I—This isn’t fair, Hilda.” He lets go of her arm, stepping closer. “I’ve been looking for you for five years—”

“Oh, so the fact that you’ve been stalking me is supposed to change my mind?”

He doesn’t raise his voice. He never has. Softly, he says, “I still love you, Hilda.”

She wants to sob. Hilda turns away from him, dabbing tears away with her fingertips. She wishes he just got angry or violent or avoidant. Anything but the open sadness. She would have preferred him hitting her over him killing her gently with his words. 

“That’s not an apology,” she manages to choke out. He’s trailing a hand up her back, the familiarity of the gesture enough to make her legs weak. “Claude,” she says, more forcefully this time.

He retreats. When she looks at him again, he’s standing a metre away. “I’ve spent years thinking about what I did wrong, Hilda. I don’t understand. I don’t know what you want me to be sorry for.” He rakes another hand through his hair, gaze fixed upon her.

Hilda hardens her glare. “If you knew me, then you would’ve already understood by now.”

He laughs mirthlessly, gaze flying away from her. “For someone who loves taking the easy way out, you sure don’t make it easy for the rest of us.”

“Don’t you dare! Don’t you dare.”

“Don’t I dare what, Hilda? Just say it. Just tell me what you want.”

“I have been for five fucking years, Claude! Leave me be!” She turns on her heel and stalks off. She doesn’t know where she’s going but anywhere is better than there, with him. 

By the time she reaches the living room, sobs are shaking her entire body. Hilda tucks herself onto one of the couches, the ugly contortions of her face hidden by her hands. The tears won’t stop coming. She feels like she can’t breathe. Her chest squeezes her heart so tight she’s sure she’ll burst.

She can feel the couch shifting beneath her as Claude sits beside her. Blindly, she reaches out to bat him away. Her hand finds his chest. He doesn’t move as she pushes him.

“I’m sorry for following you,” he starts. She doesn’t look at him, turning further away. “But I want answers. I—I need answers.” When she doesn’t say anything, he continues, “I know it has to do with that argument we had. I don’t understand how it kept you away for five years.” He swallows, then adds, “I’ll leave you alone after this, if you still want me to. I promise.”

Hilda inhales shakily. Then, rubbing roughly at her face, she uncurls herself. Staring at the stars on the ceiling instead of him, she says, “I never wanted your life. I thought you knew that.”

“I…had an idea.”

Hilda laughs darkly. “Yeah, well, you clearly didn’t grasp it well enough. I’ve always thought it was all useless.” She knows Claude knows what she’s referring to. “So, when Holst told me that—that I was the next in line when he died, not if he died, well…”

“Hilda, I don’t like it either. The Almyrans—it’s messy, but I can stop the skirmishes. I can fix it.”

“So why haven’t you?” she asks. “I didn’t want to inherit a war, Claude. And I will not be made to take on a job that I do not fucking want because my own brother is too foolhardy to find a way to negotiate peace!”

Claude doesn’t say anything. When she looks at him, he’s stone-faced. “So, what, you’re afraid you’ll never meet up to his image.”

Hilda has never hated him more than she does in that moment. He has no right to know her like he does, while simultaneously not understanding her in any way. He doesn’t get to just rip into the very centre of her, not when he probably couldn’t even tell her what her favourite ice-cream flavour is.

“You’re impossible,” she snaps.

“And you’re acting like a child.”

Hilda’s vision darkens around the edges. Her hand is only stopped by his own. A few centimetres more and she might have broken his nose. His arm strains as she fights against him. She’s crying again. She hasn’t cried this much since she was a child; she didn’t even cry when she left. It’s washing out of her now, too strong a wave for her to stop. Shaking, she tugs her arm from his grip. 

“I’m sorry, Hilda,” Claude murmurs. He trails a hand over her cheeks, but the tears come too fast for him to wipe them all away. She doesn’t jerk away. She finds she doesn’t want to. “I don’t have any right to judge you after five years.”

“You mean it?” she asks, even though she intimately knows the ways he lies.

He nods. Takes her hand. They stare at each other. Hilda is still blinking away tears. Their hands bridge the five long years between them, but Hilda isn’t sure it’s enough. 

He’s as handsome as ever, in a jaded sort of way. His eyes are so dark, their gravity drawing the moonlight in. Bruised shadows under his eyes. Their green has aged. 

When those eyes fill up Hilda’s vision, she doesn’t lean away. He’s so much closer now. This is the closest they’ve been in five years, yet Hilda has never felt further from the man across from her.

When Claude kisses her, she kisses him back. When he tugs at the hem of her top, she takes it off with him. Her hands scrabble at the buttons of his shirt, his lips finding her neck. Hilda lets his hands roam her skin; it’s a routine she falls easily back into. They shed years like they shed clothing. The space between them grows heated. 

She feels so cold, colder even than the day she had flown off this verdant rock. Not even the scorch of his lips would’ve been enough to thaw her frozen heart.

Hilda pushes him away, letting her hair fall in a curtain in front of her face. “That’s it then? We fight, we have sex, we make up?”

The flush is fading from his skin. His hands linger on her waist, but his fingers are cooling against her skin. He looks gaunt. He looks sad. “I’m—I’m sorry, Claude, but I can’t live like this.”

As she gets up, he doesn’t say a thing. The Claude she knew might have tried to argue with her, in his roundabout way. But this Claude? He just stares after her, eyes hooded and haunted. 

Hilda tugs her clothes back on and walks away. 

Claude doesn’t chase her this time. But she can feel the sear of his gaze on her back.

*

Hilda finds Linhardt dozing against her door. When she steps closer, he jerks suddenly awake. “Right. Do you want some company?”

She softens, waxing to his warmth. Because for Linhardt, this is the equivalent of a long hug.

They sit there together for a while, watching the shadows grow longer as the moon draws closer to the horizon. Through the skylights lining the ceiling, Hilda can see the stars. Sometimes, she wishes Lysithea would just fly straight for one of those and never look back. It could just be the three of them against the universe.

Hilda throws a sidelong glance at Linhardt. He’s looking up too. His eyes are unfocused, as if he’s trying to take in all of that blackness at once. That, or he could just be trying not to fall asleep.

"How do you think people see us?" she asks him eventually.

He blinks, shaking his head a little; it was the falling asleep then. He just shrugs. "I don't know. I'm happy running away, so why bother considering anything else?"

Hilda opens her mouth, and then closes it again. They both know it's a lie. She's seen that little photo he has of him and Caspar, frayed almost to the point of being unrecognisable.

It makes her think of Claude, so she just tries not to think at all.

Finally, she yawns a bit too long. Linhardt is fast asleep beside her, so she just pushes him over a bit and fetches a blanket from her room. Linhardt can sleep in basically any position, he’s so used to it that he won’t be sore tomorrow.

She whispers goodnight to him, and he even manages to mumble it back in a sleepy haze. 

Before walking into her room, she throws one last sidelong glance at the empty living room. Checking for movement in the shadows, or for a pair of eyes watching her still.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i love,,,, talking. they are just friends. talking. and also arguing, i guess?
> 
> some random details:  
> \- claude accidentally woke linhardt up. upon just staring at one another, linhardt grumbles and gets up to nap somewhere else. he hears the argument, and decides to find hilda afterwards.  
> \- bernie went to sleep in the engine room; it's why she's so greasy all the time. she just finds the white noise comforting, it reminds her of the satellite she used to live in.  
> \- she had asked edelgard to live in that satellite for its access to the web. bernie wanted to make her proud. she didn't know that she didn't need to.


End file.
